


The Mad Prince

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Exophilia, F/M, GASP there was only ONE BED, Human/Monster Romance, Sharing a Bed, Soulmates, drider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Starward Matchmakers™ (owned by Abraxas Corporations™) have been bringing people together for almost a century! Their success rates at finding the perfect person for someone is unprecedented. Anyone who can afford it does it. They find their soulmate, and live happily ever after, and are one more success story under Starward Matchmakers' belt.You made the mistake of trying your luck with them. It's only a test, after all, and a small DNA sample, so you thought that, in the worst case, you wouldn't be paired with anyone.You were wrong.***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***





	1. Planetside

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This story is for a 1.5K follower celebration, where I set up a poll for people to vote what they want to see next, and you can see an official report [here!](https://admin.typeform.com/form/I0JFqU/reports) Ya'll spoke, I listened, so buckle up, pals, and come get ya'll's juice.

#

The air of the ship is remarkably sterile, every breath of it almost flushes your lungs free of living cells, a bleach-like taste has long settled on the back of your tongue, one you haven’t been able to wash out. A water bottle sits on the polished table in front of you, one that boasts its source is an underground spring on a relatively untouched planet, definitely something far out of your price range and would never accept unless given for free. The ship rattles briefly as the inertial dampeners compensate for a sudden source of gravity, though so subtle that the water in the biodegradable plastic trembles only slightly.

“That means we’ve hit Lolth’s atmosphere.” A Starward Matchmakers™ representative smiles, her teeth too white and her mouth too wide. Her tone somehow converges on every single nerve you have in your body.

“I know,” you say, trying with great difficulty not to snap. It’s been a long while for you to be trapped with her… _chipperness._

“Oh, of course, how could I forget.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But you should maybe put a damper on that attitude of yours, the royal family isn’t known for putting up with sass.”

Oh, you want to punch her in that perfectly crafted nose. Biting your lip down, you try to focus on the shift of gravity, the artificial pull slowly dying as a planet’s natural force takes hold. The slow descent feels like forever, the lack of windows in your cabin only torturing you further. You wish you could be up in the cockpit, strapped into the captain’s chair, completely in control, but _no._ It wouldn’t be _proper._ Finally, another attendant pokes their head through the open door, announcing the finished landing.

Before you stand, the representative grabs your hand in an ironlike grip. “Remember; grace, poise, elegance. Not someone of _your_ reputation.” She is far stronger than someone of her skinny frame can manage without modifications. Even when you nod, she doesn’t immediately let go, most likely in the hopes that prolonging this threat might actually put some fear into your soul.

You pull away, eyeing her in a challenge, and after a moment too long, she relents. Calmly, you pick up the personal bag you were allowed to bring and leave the cabin, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative on your heels. The unmistakable scent of ‘natural’ air hits your nostrils, like a balming relief against a day-old burn, and you try to pick up your pace down the thin row of cabins and out into the open. It’s hot, far hotter than you are used to, a dry breeze doing nothing to relieve your already sweating skin. A dull hum permeates the cavernous space, the engines of your ship still in the process of a complete shut-down. At the very foot of the stairway is a tall humanoid, gray in complexion, silky white hair blowing out like thin spider webs.

“Mistress,” he says, bowing first to you, then to the representative. “Allow me to welcome you and your entourage to our lovely planet. The _keias_ is beside himself with excitement to finally meet his soulmate.”

“Thank you!” Manners matter, you think, eyes flickering overhead to where two slabs of metal slowly shut a dangerous atmosphere away from the underground’s inhabitants. The Starward Matchmaker™ representative pinches your arm in a location no one beneath you would see in the way of a prompt. “And- it will be my honor to meet them, sir.”

“Of course, please, follow me. Your things will be taken to an apartment while a more, er, permanent solution will be found.”

“I understand, thank you.” You take one step down on the polished, faux marble steps of the ship, then take a pause. Perhaps it goes unnoticeable by others since it only lasts a fraction of a moment. _Am I really doing this,_ you wonder in that second, looking at the hard stone floor of the hangar, _is this who I am, really?_ It passes, and you continue downwards, the question left unanswered. You fold your hands, nails digging against knuckles, and follow the Drow escort through the unbearably warm cavern.

There’s a warbling pattern in the stone, one that holds your attention for a minute too long and has the Starward Matchmaker™ representative gently kick at your heel. _Head up,_ you can almost hear her voice in your head, and so you do, obediently, and try focusing on some other things noticeable at this position. For example, while there are other ships in the hangar, not too many, but the quality of each is unquestionable. All of them are sleek, shining, and shaped in the typical ornamental fashion that Abraxas Corporations™ has long since patented, each number that you see painted on the sides showing that the oldest model is only a single year out of the factory. A fantastical waste of money, in your humble opinion, but you don’t dare verbalize it right now.

The drow attendant leads you to a tunnel, one dimly lit by hazy blue lights lining the floor, and the temperature becomes just _slightly_ more bearable. While the stone you walk on is smoother than those fancy ships outside, the walls and ceiling are rawer, bumps and crevices creating a sort of texture that at least gives you something fascinating to look at until the drow attendant opens a metallic door embedded into the rock. It’s a station, you think, with a train or trolley of some kind waiting against the wall. The doors part the moment you are within range, and finally- _finally,_ a blast of cooler air soothes your skin, your entire body relaxing under the blissful relief of air conditioning.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like, my lady.”

Oh! The attendant is talking to _you._ With a small mutter of _thanks,_ you take one of the cushioned benches by the window, staring at the glass, trying to see past your reflection and back into the tunnel. The ride isn’t that long, at least, in comparison to the time it took to get from a deep-space station to planetside, but the nervous anticipation makes it seem like another eternity. You are already standing up to get out, though you step to the side for your guide to go first.

You wouldn’t call this place _bustling,_ unlike some of the previous stops your ‘entourage’ has ended up at. The people who do occupy the area aren’t in any kind of hurry, either, but are merely wandering to their destination at a leisurely pace. And, unfortunately, the moment you are seen, all eyes seem to fall on you like a bug beneath a microscope. Which, you suppose, is a funny kind of metaphor to use given the species and circumstances, but even so, you walk through the hub with your head held high and your posture perfectly straight, just as practiced only a few days before. A far cry from the slinking and prowling that you are used to, that’s for sure.

The three of you walk all the way to the other side of this terminal, towards a gilded set of elevators, all of which are guarded by another drow. Your own drow attendant slips a key card from his pocket, sliding it through a reader, and the machine beeps in confirmation. The ground rises rapidly, as the tube you stand in lowers, going down, deep into the depths of the planet, rocks surrounding the glass until the tunnel empties into a cavern more massive than the city you hail from, buildings built into what is left of a long-extinct forest from the planet’s distant past. Flickering lights of homes and offices could almost fool you into thinking them to be stars, but you know better. Still, it might be nice to look at something and pretend you aren’t buried under a couple of kilometers of rock.

The elevator zooms past and beneath the central part of the city, moving further down into the natural lava tunnels of a long-inactive violent core. The royalty of the world lives deeper from the surface, probably for the better air conditioning, you’d gander, or some sort of reigning mythology about how they’re closer to their planet/god(s) this way. You hadn’t really had the time to pour over every little detail of this world’s history and lore, since literally four days ago, the royalty of Lolth was the _last_ thing on your mind.

Eventually, the flawless glass doors open, and you are let out into a garden of sorts. There is grass, at least, you think it’s grass, lining either side of the stone pathway, flowers sprouting in areas that are easy to listlessly meander around. Bioluminescent mushrooms and moss grow along the cavern walls and pathway, though rustic-looking lampposts help to light your way every couple of meters. There, up ahead, you realize as you try to document just how far the lanterns go, someone is already walking towards you. Could it be _him?_ Your body fills with anxiety, your fight instincts gearing up to, you don’t know, pretend to cower?

“Is this it?” A voice asks, and you are already confident that you hate this person. ‘Overbearing’Condescending would be a nice way to describe their tone, but you would take it a step further and maybe say it’s _condescending_ and maybe even _bastardly_ for good flavor.

“Yes, Vice Martial,” the drow attendant bows deeply. “As much as I am certain the two of you would appreciate introductions, I’m afraid the _keias_ was very specific about the immediate transportation she would take to his presence. I’m afraid we are already running short on time.”

“Be silent, I gave you no permission to speak.” The Vice Martial’s eight legs _click, click, click_ against the ground as he approaches, eyes narrowing. “I was against this ridiculous farse from the start, and to have something so small, so _pitiful,_ dare enter our home and live off of our land like a parasite?” He leans in closer, so close you can smell alcohol on his breath. “Unacceptable.”

_Show no fear, have no weakness._

“Of course, you have your apprehensions!” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative pulls a glossy brochure out of seemingly nowhere, her grin vast and terrifying, her voice the epitome of perfectly perky customer service. “Anyone daring to make such a big decision should be terrified! But at Starward Matchmakers™, our focus is to bring a harmonious connection between two destined souls is something we take _so very seriously._ If our experts have matched the two together, then our girl here is perfect for your prince, excuse me, _keias,_ in every way!”

“I don’t care about what welp that little bastard sleeps with,” the vice marshal snaps, at least now directing his drunken anger to the Starward Matchmaker™ representative, “I care about whether it’s right for Lolth.”

“And those are some very valid fears!” She somehow smiles even wider. “But allow me to put everything to ease. Our satisfaction rate is one-hundred percent, which is nothing less of _perfect._ The people I represent have no intention of sullying our records _now,_ with _this._ Do you understand? Of course, you do! Now if you would be so kind as to _excuse us,”_ she grips your arm and shoves her way forward, _“we have some magic to make!™”_

The vice marshal doesn’t even have a chance to say anything else, because you are suddenly shoved into the entrance of an… apartment? House? The drow attendant and the Starward Matchmaker™ representative stand in front of the closed doors, either to block anyone’s entry or deter you from exiting, you don’t know. Probably both.

“Remember,” the Starward Matchmaker™ representative says, smoothing one of your sleeves of nonexistent wrinkles, “no attitude. No spunky quips. I don’t care _how_ funny you think whatever joke you’re making is, you will be quiet as a dandelion. Show him not the respect you think he deserves, but the respect _he_ thinks he deserves.”

This is all a reiteration of things you have been told over and over and _over_ again, so you resist rolling your eyes. Though, whatever exasperation you feel is quickly gone the moment you see someone beginning to descend from the long, marble stairway. At first you think he's some kind of servant, or herald, maybe, because he doesn't _move_ like he did in the holovids the military made you watch, but you do recognize the features after a moment of observation. 

His appearance is the same as the photographs you were shown when the Starward Matchmakers™ first sat you down, hangover pounding in your bloodstream. His hair is so dark it looks almost black, skin a deep gray with touches of blue. You immediately stand taller, mouth squeezed shut, eyes watching his every move as if he will burst forward and rip you to pieces.

He has a reputation for doing worse.

The clicking of his steps stop as he stands, full height, right in front of you, and you have to tilt your chin upwards just to meet his gaze head-on. Even with the Starward Matchmaker™ representative right in the room, she can’t see your face, so she can’t police your reaction. You don’t give him anything demure, nor submissive. There is no shyness in your eyes, you don’t allow yourself to feel small, and you most certainly refuse to show a smidgen of fear.

“Hello,” you say, and you can practically hear the Starward Matchmaker™ representative’s face hit her palm for speaking out of turn.

“Hello,” he responds, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side, his pure black seeing-eyes blinking only once, his motion sensors staying blank and still as though dead. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

“I- it is an honor to finally meet you as well.” You wince at the formality of this meeting, wishing that the Starward Matchmaker™ representative and drow attendant would just leave the two of you alone, but you know that you will not receive that… how did the Starward Matchmaker™ representative put it… _privilege,_ at least until she can see the relationship is blossoming the way it needs to.

The way _they_ need it to.

“Your planet is beautiful,” compliments always work, and you genuinely mean this one, “I mean, well, I haven’t seen a whole lot of it, but just from the little that I’ve been through, it’s…" you shrug, “really nice.”

“Oh.” He cocks his head the other way, now, a lock of hair the color of the blue-gray stones falling into his face. “I remember, your profile says that you weren’t born on a planet.”

“No,” you shake your head, “but I’ve been planetside a- um, a few times. Humans need real gravity every now and then.”

“Real gravity is good for any ground-species.”

The conversation is going nowhere, clearly, so the Starward Matchmaker™ representative decides that this moment where she cuts in. “If I may, _keias?”_

His face looks over at her in an instant, the movement of his neck so quick it would have cracked if he was human. The prince’s gaze hardens, perhaps unnoticeable by someone of his own species, but easy to note by both you and the Starward Matchmaker™ representative. After a lone, nerve-wracking moment where he observes her like a bug beneath his feet, he offers single, clipped, nod.

“It’s been a very long journey, very much worth it, I am sure, but,” she lays a hand on your arm, and you immediately tense up, “she’s quite tired, and I’m afraid I have to get her squared away for the night. I hope you understand! I’m just here for her wellbeing in such a foreign situation.”

The prince looks at you.

You don’t say anything.

“Of course,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “Elias will bring you to your suite. May I expect you over for an evening meal?”

“We’ll see how she feels.” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative pets your arm. “This is all so overwhelming for her, I’m sure you understand.”

The prince places both hands behind his back and looks over you, not with the same chilling observation he gave the Starward Matchmaker™, but something… else. Something softer. “I’m sure I will.”

* * *

“What in god’s name was _that?”_

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do.” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative folds her hands together, looking at you over them with narrowed eyes. “You went off script.”

You offer a listless shrug, looking her in the eye. The lights here, at least, are bright enough for you to see comfortably without needing to strain your eyes. “I just don’t think you can make a decent connection with someone when every permutation has been desperately thought out.”

The Starward Matchmaker™ representative huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “You aren’t here to be yourself, you’re here to do a gosh-darn job. This isn’t all rainbows and puppies, I thought you understood how serious this business is.”

“I do.”

“It doesn’t look like it, honey! What made you think that acting like some bland little twat was a good idea?”

You sit down on one of the plush, oddly misshapen chair, glaring at the wall while the Starward Matchmaker™ representative goes on a tirade. The room is large, the ceiling far higher than most places you’ve ended up in, and this isn’t even the full extent of your suite. You get a room, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative gets a room, a personal servant the royal family is providing gets a room, and for whatever reason, a whole extra bedroom, wholly unused, just down the hall from yours. _For any guests,_ the drow attendant had said, but there is no one you can think of hosting at the moment.

Oh, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative looks like she’s tiring herself out. Better start nodding in agreement to whatever else she says.

“Good,” she, at least, seems satisfied. “I’m glad we’ve had this little chat, then. Hurry and wash up, then, we want you to look presentable tonight.”

So you _are_ going to dinner. You sit up a little straighter, then bounce off the chair and into your room. There’s an adjacent bathroom, with a dress already hanging up by the mirror, a gray, fluttery thing that will ripple easily with movement. _Color doesn’t really matter down here,_ you remember, poking at all the dull jewelry and makeup, _driders and drows can’t process the light spectrum as well as humans._ What they can sense, though, is movement, so clothes that shift and float with the slightest gesture are the ones that are worn to show off. Still, putting something on that’s basically the equivalent of neon orange feels like putting a target on your back.

Shower first. Think later. It’s real water, too, and not those sonic frequencies that knock dirt from pores or those sanisaunas ™ that disinfect the day’s grit away with nothing more than hazy steam. Today, though, you can’t take your time, and you are too hyped up to stay under the water’s stream for too long, no matter how blissful it feels. The soap has some kind of deep earthy scent, not one that you might select for yourself, but one you aren’t abhorrent towards. It works a nice lather against your skin, though the bar slips from your clumsy fingers since you aren’t exactly used to scrubbing the good old fashioned way.

There’s a towel waiting for you, hanging up against the rack. It’s the first thing in this place you’ve seen that’s white, even the glossy marble and metalwork of the whole suite, including the bathroom, are various shades of gray and black. Which isn’t to say that it looks terrible, because this is sincerely the most beautiful place you’ve ever managed to score, it’s just… odd, you think, that the towels are white, as though they were purchased and placed here with you in mind. You wrap it around your body, stepping out, and taking a moment to stand in front of a mirror. There are dark circles beneath your eyes, crescents of exhaustion that beg you to take a moment or two just to sleep.

You get dressed, instead. The gown is at least designed to look more complicated than it really is, and you manage to get it on by yourself. The zipper slides up your back with a bit of ease, then you smooth down the tight bodice, noticing only now how badly your hands are shaking. Your mouth tastes dry, and perhaps the unnatural ashy paleness of your skin truly brings out the grayness around your eyes. The wall is cool against your back as you lean back, sliding down to sit on the hard floor, placing your forehead against your knees.

_Breathe._

It’s hard, thinking about having to eat dinner with him later. It’s hard to think about him in general, and to have him matched as your soulmate? You’ve always known these things are farces, of political or corporate gain, and now you dig your heels into the ground of that belief and hold it closer.

The door knocks with a volume and efficiency only the last person you wish to see at the moment possesses. “Time to go, sugar! We can’t have the prince waiting, can we?”

It takes a wobbling moment for you to stand, hand braced up against the wall, but you somehow manage it. Throwing up a facade of calmness that you haven’t felt since you were hauled into that interrogation room five days ago, you open the door. The Starward Matchmaker™ representative holds out a box, the lid already off to reveal a glittering pair of shoes. _Not_ high heels, thank the _gods,_ you don’t know how you would pull together the energy to fight her on that. It’s pair of flats, a pattern of shattered glass decorating the outside, the inside surprisingly comfortable to what anyone would assume by looking them over.

You put them on, holding on one of the chairs for balance, and take a few experimental steps. It’s decent enough, but even with thousands of years to perfect the art of shoes, it still takes a couple of good hours to break even the best of pairs in. With a small sigh, you shift the weight between your toes and heels, already feeling where those blisters are going to end up forming, but there isn’t really anything you can do about it. The Starward Matchmaker™ representative isn’t going to let you wear your old but comfy combat boots if she can help it, you’ve had to smuggle them in the very bottom of your luggage and bribe an inspector to keep quiet about it.

After a moment of watching your movements with a fixated grace that you’ve long since gotten used to, the Starward Matchmaker™ representative sighs, tucking a piece of perfectly blond hair behind her hair. “Not what we all wanted, I’m sure, but it will do.” Pressing your lips together, you don’t risk rolling your eyes lest she suddenly decides that you are far too tired to dine with the prince tonight. You don’t wish to be stuck in the suite with her for another night, you’ll go crazy, and you can’t have the prince catching wind of any violence on your part.

“Now, remember; healthy appetite.” The Starward Matchmaker™ representative comes up behind you, playing with your still-damp hair, twisting it into something you’re sure is attractive to the driders. “There is no such thing as ‘ladylike’ here, but you must prove that you’ll be able to produce good and healthy heirs.”

You wrinkle your nose, but don’t respond.

The Starward Matchmaker™ representative tugs at your roots, causing your eyes to tear up. “And whatever you do,” her voice is low, threatening, “I will be watching. Every movement, every breath, every bite of food you dare to take. If you so much as _twitch_ in a way I don’t like,” she pushes a pin through whatever she sculpted, taking no care to be wary of your scalp, “you will be terminated. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Her voice turns back to that sickening cheerfulness that makes you want to wring her neck. “Turn around.”

You obey, hands flat at your sides.

“Oh,” Starward Matchmaker™ representative holds a hand over her mouth, “you look _beautiful,_ honey! Just so,” she fans herself with her fingers, “marvelous. You’ve come such a long way in such a short time!”

You say nothing.


	2. Underneath

_Four days prior_

A rush of blood runs down your mouth and chin, though no one in the room bothers to offer up a tissue of any kind. Instead of using your jacket sleeve, you resign to glare at the orc sitting across from you in defiance, letting your nosebleed drip onto the shiny metal table. The blood doesn’t seem to faze him, though, and as he carefully shuffles some papers around, he doesn’t offer up an explanation for your arrest. Which isn’t great for you, because your head is pounding with a dry kind of pain that only a killer hangover can pull off correctly, and your patience is as thin as a microthread. You don’t have _assault of a security personnel_ officially on your record yet, but today is a good a day as any for some magic to happen.

Finally, after he makes you wait for a good full five minutes, the pool of blood steadily growing until it’s almost close enough to start dripping off the table, he clicks the electropad™ off, flipping it so that the screen lies face down.

You glare.

“Don’t try evading arrest, kid.” He seems unfazed, then states your full name in a calm, droning tone, and adds, “do you know why you’re here today?”

Your mouth closes even tighter, the metallic kick of blood on your tongue, making your mouth salivate.

After a moment where the orc waits for you to incriminate yourself (honestly, this isn’t your first rodeo and _he knows it,_ so why he even bothers, you don’t know), he lets out a huffy sigh. Someone walks through the door, then, someone tall and far more well-groomed than both the orc and you, with long, thick hair-like strands that are tied away in a tight bun. They hold themselves with the confidence of someone who has yet to see a downfall, the kind of hubris that is palpable, you can see the aura of it like a pulsing, bright lightbulb.

“Thank you for watching her, captain, but I will take it from here,” they say, hands folded over their uniform. An insignia gleams on either side of their uniform visible even with the dim, flickering light of the holding room. An… admiral, you realize, they’re an _admiral._ What’s an admiral of the Democratic Republic fleet doing here, in this shithole, wanting to speak to _you?_

Nothing good, you think, biting your lip down.

The orc grunts, standing from the chair that barely holds his weight, and lumbers out of the room, shutting the thick, steel door behind him. To be entirely fair, you aren’t at all intimidated by the slender frame of the admiral, but you are aware of the vast repercussions that an assault to a space naval officer will bring. Though, instead of trying to pull any intimidation tactics, the admiral offers up their handkerchief. It’s real fabric, you realize, taking it between two of your fingers and using it to pinch the bridge of your nose, and will probably stain brown. This is a good sign, you think. They want to be on your sweet side, which means they probably want something from you. You can play this to your benefit.

“Do you have any idea what you did last night?” They ask, looking you over with a pair of disturbingly golden eyes.

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Mm, yes,” out comes an electropad™ from a satchel made from the same material as their uniform, “I’ve been told that you have a habit for drunken excursions. Now,” they push the electropad™ over, “does this look at all familiar?”

You lean over slightly to look over a… profile? It has the recognizable Starward Matchmakers™ logo on the top center, so it’s a dating profile… with… your face. It’s a Starward Matchmakers™ dating profile _for you._ The pending date says you submitted it sometime late last night, only a few hours after you arrived at a bar with the intent to get completely wasted. Which… fuck. There go your bragging rights of never needing an algorithm to get laid.

“No,” you say, honestly, “but that’s usually the intent for when I go out.”

The admiral reaches over, gently dragging the pad back. “Well, it seems that you have made a full profile, with the genetic testing already submitted and analyzed.”

Now that you think about it, there were those bright, sparkly machines that advertised an expedited matching… if you had the credits. Oh, good lord. You hadn’t checked your bank account before the cops came pounding at your door, but you might take a gander that a good chunk will be missing when you do. Great. Perfect. What a way to wake up in the morning; no coffee, a battalion of security officers at your motel doorstep, and your credits almost drained. What the ever-loving fuck did you _do_ last night?

“And?” You ask, barely managing to cover up your nervousness.

“And,” the admiral says, tapping their fingers over the matte, glass surface of the pad. After a moment, they hold it up so you can see, “it appears that you have a very unique match, indeed.”

You stare.

The admiral arches an eyebrow.

“No fucking way,” you take a deep breath, nervously picking at the threads of your tunic. “This is a joke, right?”

“I’m afraid not.” The admiral slides the pad further in your direction for a better view.

“I don’t believe you.”

“And you are entitled to that belief.” The admiral states, placing their hands on the table, “but the fact of the matter is that you are now out in a… very _opportunistic_ position.”

You almost didn’t hear them, mouth in a thin, straight line, staring at the profile picture of a creature you had hoped to never, ever meet. After just a moment, though, you snap your head up. “What do you mean?”

The admiral smiles.

* * *

_Now_

Thankful to your, um, _it’s challenging to think of him as your soulmate, despite everything that’s already happened,_ there doesn’t seem to be more than two places at the main table set, even though it looks as though the dining hall could hold a decently sized crowd of stiff and unyielding upper class driders. Everything is washed in a warm, organic glow, an oddly shaped chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a soft, flickering light coming from the inside of the delicately blown glass. Most of the chairs aren’t anything like seats for bipedal humanoids save for one (yours, you assume), most of them resembling something like stiff bean bags made from black, velvety material.

Before the Starward Matchmakers™ representative could steer you in whichever direction she wants you to go, the drow attendant, Elias, gently takes you by the elbow.

“My lady,” he says, humbly, “the _keias_ has requested you take the seat at his right hand.”

“Oh.” Is it a surprise that he wishes you to sit by his side? Maybe not, but the significance of it is not lost on you, that is if Lolthites even hold the same regard for the ‘right hand’ as humans. Maybe not, and this is just a regular dinner where you just happen to be sitting at the prince’s right side.

And perhaps you are overthinking this whole affair.

“How beautiful for you,” the Starward Matchmakers™ representative says, giving you a carefully expressive glare, before looking back at the drow attendant, “I need to be sitting next to my client.”

“I’m afraid the _keias’_ orders are quite precise about the sitting arrangements, ma’am,” the drow attendant bowed only a fraction in comparison to the bow he gave you, “it is grossly improper for the serving class to dine in the presence of royalty, especially so for one so… sturdy.”

“Oh!” Her voice goes high pitched, the side of her smile twitching subtly. “Wonderful. How… considerate, that your _keais_ reserved a space, far away, for me.”

“His grace knows no bounds!” Whether the attendant, Elias, is being facetious or sincere to the feeling of his words is wholly lost on you, but all you care about is how he leads an only mildly resistant Starward Matchmakers™ representative farther away.

_Click, click, click, click._

You turn, just as prince enters through a different door than the one you and the Starward Matchmakers™ representative had come in. Unsure of what to do with your hands, and just things in general, you fold them in your front, picking at the edges of your fingertips just to have something to anchor you to reality. Even if you hadn’t known his reputation, his appearance, and really, the appearance of all driders can most certainly be… Off-putting, to say the least. You are still consciously refraining from flinching every time you see those cold, beady black eyes.

The prince, as expected, is wearing something that’s considered handsome on this planet. You’d call it a dress, maybe not to his face, but the drapery of a billowy fabric that adorns his figure kind of reminds you of… oh, what did they call them… _kimonos,_ from an ancient Earth civilization. There are some holovids on it, you’ve mostly ignored them, though. The certain kind of outfit has stayed with you, for whatever reason, maybe it’s because both kimonos and _togas_ have seen a recent comeback in modern wear? It’s kind of odd, now that you think about it, that the prince wears something that could be considered fashionable on both planets. The fabric itself is so black that it seems to be sucking in all light, making his grayish-blue skin seem paler, the folds and creases of which are almost invisible to your eye. Like before, his hair is well-groomed, thin, straight, and long, a portion of it tied away in an ornamental bun adorned with a jeweled pin.

“Your gr-” you hesitate, unsure of if you should be addressing him formally or not. You try to go for the latter, testing the boundaries of the relationship he expects, and try to recall his first name. You can almost feel the Starward Matchmakers™ representative creep out of the shadows to glare. “Aksanos. Hi.”

“Hello.” He doesn’t flick out one of his golden gilded claws to slit your throat for disrespecting his title, much to your surprise. Instead, he offers the hesitant curve of his mouth, though it doesn’t go far enough to be called a smile. The prince could just be bearing just fangs, you aren’t certain. With a simple movement of his wrist, he gestures to the chair made for bipedal humanoid and waits for you to seat yourself before moving to take his own.

A servant drow comes out from another one of the doors, carefully hidden by wickedly shaped pillars, with a platter of food. An appetizer, you remember from your brief training, something to eat before the main dish comes out. There seems to have been some concern over your usual diet, as most of the things that the drow servant spreads over the table are things you are familiar with.

“I suspect that you find the food selection satisfactory?”

You are already halfway through the plate when you remember to swallow. God, you haven’t had this good a meal since… since…. “Everything is great, thank you.”

“And your accommodations?” He asks as though he _genuinely cares_ about what you think, which, _impossible._

“Are great,” you say, unsure of how much to disclose, “it’s much better than where I’ve been before.”

“And where would those places be?”

He’s probing. You try to think of all the places that don’t inherently have the reputation of black market trades. “Uh, Obren, Forest, the Rift, and some others.”

“So you’ve been to plenty of other planets.” One of the golden claws against the black marble table. “I read that you’re a pilot.”

“I am.”

“It was rather vague about what exactly you piloted.”

Again, something you have to remain vague about. It’s no use lying, you’ve done it before and had some trouble keeping track of what is what. “A Siber-Class freighter.” A beautiful ship, one old enough to be considered an antique, but still young enough to work with minimal issues. “I called her the _Seventh Star.”_

“Poetic.”

You automatically assume that he’s mocking you, but there isn’t any sign that he is anything but sincere. With your background, you should think that you’re at least _decent_ at reading people, but then again, you’ve never tried making any kind of deals with driders. Or anyone from the Empire.

_Ask him questions, be interested in his life._

“So,” you try desperately to think of something, “tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” He straightens.

_If the rumors are true._ “Well,” you say slowly, “what is something you enjoy doing when you aren’t being… princely.”

He picks at his food with an uninterested air, taking a moment to answer. “Archery.”

~~The mad prince of Lolth lined everyone up in a neat little row,~~

~~shooting them in the heart, one by one.~~

“Like the old kind, with bows and arrows?” You ask, trying not to show the spike of fear that bursts into your veins.

He nods, once, and finally takes a bite off something on his plate. “It’s soothing, once you know what you’re doing.” _Oh, you just bet it is._ “If you would like to learn, I’d be happy to teach you, or find an instructor.”

You don’t want to flat out refuse, you don’t want to seem rude. “If… if I end up staying, then certainly.”

His eyes snap up, and even though there are no pupils or irises to show movement, you can still see the shift in the glassy black. _“If_ you stay,” he says, a question inside of a statement.

“Well,” you fucked up, you know it, “I mean, if the matchmakers are wrong, and we aren’t-“you pick up a fork and stab some kind of light green vegetable, “we aren’t really compatible.”

“They’ve never been wrong before.”

Oh, right. The people of the Empire don’t exactly have freedom of the press or public records that anyone can look at. “We might be the first, then.”

“Alright,” he stares at the wineglass in his hand, swirling the blood-red liquid around, “that is, I suppose, a fair statement to make.”

Another course saves you from having to try and come up with something to say to that, or a subtle way to let him know that you probably aren’t a permanent addition to the lovely planet of Lolth. Before you can even stop it, you’re smiling, because you recognize the food set out. It was your answer to the Starward Matchmakers™ profile question _what is your favorite food?_ Drunk you didn’t try to lie and say something that would, you don’t know, make you seem like less of an animal, no ma’am. Drunk you went straight in and demanded what her taste buds deserve and what her stomach does not need.

And, right now, it’s something you can’t be more thrilled to see. Sure, it’s been dressed up quite a bit and turned into something ridiculously fancy, _but still._ You have to stop yourself from swinging your legs back and forth from the chair in excitement.

“I’m assuming that you’re the one who planned the meal.” You say, stopping yourself from inhaling the food.

“I did.”

“Well, you are very thorough. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

Things to look out for: the prince has an eye for detail. Though the Democratic Republic’s counter-intelligence knows _that,_ they even warned you before you left, it’s different to see it in action and have it affect you, directly. And for it to be something _positive?_

After the main course, out comes dessert. It’s not anything you are relatively familiar with, but you suppose this is the prince’s way of trying to introduce you to his world’s cuisine. You know it’s dessert, that’s what the servant announced as she brought it out, and it let out an immediate relief to your fear of having to sit for another three or four courses. You’ve heard that the more extravagant dinners that the royal family hosts can be up to fifty-three courses, and to be honest, it sounds like a stressful endeavor that you’d rather not deal with right now.

“This is… how do you say,” the prince drums his fingers against the table, “almost like a custard. It’s made from the sweet mushrooms that grow along the cavern farms. They place them in large jars to ferment, and it makes this.” He gestures to the crystalline bowl.

It looks like nothing more than the Sludge Surprise you’ve eaten in a station cafeteria, so you aren’t put off by its appearance. After all, you’ve had to eat worse things in your life just to survive, so you pick up the spoon nonchalantly. The prince observes you, trying to appear indifferent, so you offer no reaction as you scoop some up into your mouth, running it over your tongue as you try to decipher the taste. There is so much going on inside your mouth, it takes you a little bit to sort it all out. Chocolate? Maybe? Not the sweet kind, no, definitely more bitter… and perhaps a sort of… earthy wine? You eat another bite. It’s not particularly sugary, but not overpoweringly bitter.

“It’s good,” you say, taking another mouthful. “Really good. Wow, fermented mushrooms?”

The prince seems satisfied with your enjoyment. “Yes, it’s a delicacy here on Lolth. No one else has been able to successfully replicate the taste, even with the correct mushrooms. The way they grow in the soil of the caves brings out the unique sweetness.”

“Huh, I never would have guessed _mushrooms,_ if you hadn’t told me straight away.”

He looks pleased. “If you would like, I could have this sent to your room every night.”

You’re already shaking your head. “I might get used to the taste. I don’t want it to lose its effectiveness as a dessert.”

He pauses, and for a moment, you’re confident that you’ve insulted him. “That… that is an interesting point of view,” he says, “but should you change your mind, do know that you are welcome to request it at any time.”

“I will, of course,”

Both you and the prince finish with dinner, and as the drow servant clears away anything left from the table, you sit awkwardly in your chair, sipping on some wine in the hopes that it will kill your nerves. The prince is, in a strange twist of the metaphor, staring at you like a bug underneath a microscope. Not in a demeaning way, you suppose, more like he is a bug enthusiast, a bug scientist, and he is thrilled to have your kind of bug underneath the magnifier.

“Are you certain there are no changes needed for your accommodations?” He asks, once more.

_Get the freaking Starward Matchmakers™ representative in a room on the other side of Lolth._ You force a smile. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

“It’s only temporary,” he says, again, _” if_ you decide to stay, that is.”

You have a feeling that the permanent accommodations he has in mind are in his own wing of the estate. Which, you mean, makes _sense,_ since the two of you are supposed to ride off into the proverbial sunset and make wild, wild love. “Of course.”

“You must be exhausted,” he says, “the representative said that your journey was long. I apologize for keeping you so late in your schedule.

”

“I appreciate the gesture,” you say, running your fingers down the sheer layer of your dress, “and I should most likely return to my room to sleep.”

“Of course,” he stands, and gestures to the door you had first entered in, “would you like for me to walk you back?”

You see the Starward Matchmakers™ representative standing just to the side of the door. When did she get here? How long was she standing, watching you? What did she see? _What did she hear?_ Your smile fades, and you mumble, “I shouldn’t keep you for any longer, sire.”

He turns and sees the Starward Matchmakers™ representative himself, his larger seeing eyes narrowing slightly. “If you insist,” he says, “then I shall call Elias to escort you and your… assistant.”

The prince lifts up his wrist, allowing a billowing sleeve to fall back far enough back to reveal a wrist band with a shiny, flickering cover. One of his clawed fingers swipes across the screen, tapping it in quick succession only twice, and then the drow attendant is entering through the servant’s door, bowing low. “Your grace. My lady.”

“If you should want for anything, anything at all, let Elias know,” the prince says, reaching the table and gently taking your hand. An odd sensation of tingles run through your arm and into your spine, little tiny sparks of nerves that seldom fire finally awakening. Then, calmly, he presses his lips onto the back of your hand. It takes everything in you to stay standing normally, your breathing only quickening slightly, and you feel like you’d rather be afraid of him than whatever… whatever is running through you now.

“Of- of course,” you say, finding your voice in the chaos of your head. The thing he told you… ask Elias for anything… Everything you need probably goes through the drow attendant first, who then will alert the prince of anything suspicious. That means you can’t just order the ingredients for something like a bomb without raising suspicion. Not that you’re stupid enough to do anything like that, you knew that your movements would be monitored, at least you know who is doing the watching now….

The prince lets your hand go, and you’re snapped out of your thinking stupor.

You give a little bow, not so much for him, but for the Starward Matchmakers™ representative watching with an eye that doesn’t miss _anything,_ and follow Elias out through the door. Out into the hallway. Back to your room. The Starward Matchmakers™ representative walks close behind, her eyes burning a hole into your back, already queuing up the three million questions she plans to interrogate you with, most likely. You already know half of the things she’s sure to find wrong with your interactions, your posture, your tone of voice, and your lack of respectful pronouns that you hadn’t used until you noticed her against the wall. Oh, you’re going to be in so much trouble.

You’re already premeditating your counter-arguments as you walk through the beautifully crafted doors, mouth in a firm line. Elias bows once more to you, not to the Starward Matchmakers™ representative, and shuts the doors to give you some privacy. Just as you are fully geared up to throw hands (even though the Starward Matchmakers™ representative rarely gets physically rough with you), she brushes some dust from her skirt and says, only, “that seems to have gone well.”

All expectations of the fight are gone as quickly as they came, though you still give the Starward Matchmakers™ representative a weary glare.

“I mean it,” she affirms, arching her eyebrows, as though she couldn’t possibly think of why you’re so suspicious. “The prince seems, at least, marginally taken with you. There are still some ways we can improve, of course,” she places a hand on your shoulder, “but I’d say that we are doing fine. Don’t screw it up.”

The Starward Matchmakers™ representative walks away, back to her room, leaving you alone. God, you’re drained. _And,_ you think glumly, throwing yourself on the lumpy chair made for a drider, _it’s only day one._ You still have months, maybe even a year, left stuck buried kilometers underneath this hellscape planet, and you more than likely will never be able to fly during that time. Your fingers are already itching to take the pilot’s stick, to hijack one of those fancy ships and take off into the galaxy.

But you can’t.

You won’t.

You still have a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dress the protag is wearing.](https://cozycryptidcorner.tumblr.com/post/622730979838230528/i-decided-to-draw-some-of-the-dare-i-say-iconic)


	3. Frustration

_Two Days Prior to the Arrival_

“This… _was_ the person we were going send in before you matched up.” The admiral gestures their hand out to another human, a thin, lithe girl, her brown hair tied up in a puff on the top of her head. “I am well aware that you can hold yourself in a fight, but you haven’t dealt with driders before. You need to know how to handle them when things go to hell.”

“Alright,” you say, flexing your fingers, “but I doubt there’s anything you can teach me in the time we have.”

The girl looks at you, wholly unamused by your presence. “Don’t bet on it.”

“Well,” the admiral says, “I’ll leave you and Clementine alone, then.”

* * *

_Now_

You wake, on your own, which is strange unto itself. The Starward Matchmakers™ representative usually wakes you up in one way or another, so the fact that you are allowed to sleep in is rather… suspicious, on her part. She probably wants you to do something strange and specific, something that you would dig your heels into the ground over, so she’s trying to butter you up. _Well, if she thinks she can just order you around like a little puppet, she’s got another thing coming her way,_ you think, swinging your legs over the side of your bed and stretching. The clock tells you that it’s not atrociously early in the morning, though not exactly the time you’d rather be up at, you might as well rip the bandaid off and see what that crazy rep wants.

Even more peculiar, the Starward Matchmakers™ representative isn’t in the common room area, waiting for you like a phantom in the dark. That only leaves you more concerned about your own safety, because that probably means that she’s planning something right at the moment. Biting your lip, you head over to the kitchen area, a tall, dully shined refrigerator fully stocked with all sorts of food. The drow servant that the prince had assigned is already busy cooking up some breakfast, her graying blue hair up in a tight ponytail. The moment she catches sight of your still-sleepy figure, she curtsies, stepping away from the hot cooktop, so her arm doesn’t brush against the metal.

“Your grace,” she says in greeting, her voice lowered with age.

“Oh,” you wave your hand, “you don’t have to do that.”

She seems confused. “Begging your pardon, your grace, but I don’t understand.”

“The bowing. I don’t need for you to bow to me every time we meet eyes,” you elaborate, “neither of us will get anything done, and besides, I’m not anyone important.”

“But you are!” Her crystalline blue eyes widen. “Begging your pardon, your grace, I didn’t mean to shout.”

“It’s fine, you’re fine.” You try to think of another way to explain that all the respect you’re suddenly getting started to get on your nerves without insulting her. Or the prince. “I’m just not used to it, and I suppose it makes me… feel a little uneasy. Like how far away from home I am… and how distant everyone I know is… and, um,” you try to think of something else inconspicuous, “I mean, I’m not exactly royalty, you know, so-”

“Would you rather I call you ‘my lady’ or ‘ma’am?’” The drow servant asks, her eyes suddenly gentle, her tenseness relaxed.

“I think I would deeply prefer that to ‘your grace,’” you respond. It sounds like you’re their savior, which is ironic, considering what you’re really here to do.

“Of course, my lady. If it pleases you, breakfast will be ready shortly.” She doesn’t curtsey again, much to your relief.

“It does, thanks,” you stand on the tips of your toes, peering into the pan to find some kind of egg, you think, bubbling against the heat of the metal. “Smells great. Did you by any chance see the matchmaker rep out and about before I got up?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was well before you woke up, she left in quite a hurry.”

Oh, that’s interesting.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Time to shower and wonder what else you plan on doing for the day. Wandering back into your room, you go over to your open suitcase and rummage around for something comfortable to wear. You’ve bent over backward wearing all sorts of fancy clothes the last couple of days; suits, dresses, the works, so now it’s time to get comfortable. Unfortunately, you weren’t wrong about the shoe situation the night before, as a decently sized blister has formed on the back of your heal, the other rubbed raw. You let out a hiss as you run your fingers over the sore, biting your lip. You hope the prince isn’t opposed to flip-flops, because that’s probably what you’re going to be wearing for a few days.

It’s been a little while since you’ve had some time to yourself without the oppressive presence of the Starward Matchmakers™ representative watching your movements from afar. While it can be nice to be pampered every now and then, the constant stream of people hired to turn you into some kind of plastic model soon became… vexing. When all is said and done, though, you’re glad to wash your own hair and scrub your own body than have someone get all up in your business to do it for you. But you guess that if there is one thing that you’re thankful for, it would be the free laser hair removal procedure, as painful as it was.

Breakfast is waiting for you once you wander out, still kind of damp from the shower. A single place is set at the table, though the drow servant is scrambling quickly to set up for a second person.

“Um,” you run your fingers through your wet hair, flipping it from one end to the other, “is the rep back, then? You know that she doesn’t actually eat food, right?”

The drow servant gives you a look that must mean something significant, then glances somewhere behind where you stand. You catch the drift, turning around to see the prince standing in the common room area, a book in hand.

“Oh,” you say, standing a little taller, “hi.”

“Hello,” he responds, placing the book back on the shelf, “I wanted to stop by and bid you good morning before I begin work.”

“Aw, I appreciate it,” you say. The gesture is… sweet, you think, but you don’t exactly have the experience to compare it to anything else. The drow servant gives a subtle gesture, and after a second of wondering, you get the gist. “Do you… want to join me for breakfast?”

The prince looks over your shoulder. “If you would be so inclined to have me, then I would appreciate being in your company.”

“I’ll see about helping the servant put everything together-”

“Why?” He asks, almost interrupting your train of thought.

“Why…. would I help put together an extra breakfast?” You don’t mean to sound so incredulous, but it still comes out that way, because is he seriously asking you why you should bother being a decent person? “Because she was expecting only me? And now has to put together a fancy whatever breakfast for you, as well? The least I can do to help is pull out another chair or something.”

He stares at you for a moment, and you aren’t exactly sure what he is thinking. Despite the Starward Matchmakers™ representative being uptight and all over your case, whenever the prince goes silent, you wish you could look over at her face to see whether or not you were doing a decent job at winning him over. Finally, he says, “why don’t I show you the gardens while the extra breakfast is being made?”

“Uh, sure?” You glance over at the maid once more, just to make sure she was fine. “I could go change, if you need me to look presentable for, um, anyone who might see us.”

His head cocks ever so slightly. “It does not matter to me what you wear.”

“Other people might talk, though. I don’t know if you care about that or not."

“They will not dare.”

You wait for a beat, then say, “okay, then. I’ll follow you.”

Most anyone else would refer to the long, darkly lit hallways as _tunnels,_ since a good percentage of people who aren’t used to living underground would find the architecture somewhat ‘rustic.’ You have noticed, though, that most of the lights closest to your room are lit just a smidgen brighter than most other places, which means that whoever was in charge of your environment has at least put some thought into your comfort. You don’t dare complain about any of the little things that have been bothering you, though, since you don’t wish ill of the staff the prince has assigned to serve you.

The prince walks much slower than his usual pace, and still, you have to keep your legs moving much faster than your own typical speed just to keep up with him. Which is fine, you guess, trying not to pant like a well-exercised dog, this will keep your heart pumping and your legs toned. It’s good, it’s fine. It only reminds you that you stand no chance to outrun most driders, and you need to remember how dangerous these apex predators are. The prince can almost make you forget that he can rip your spine out with how… not gentle, no… _tame_ his words and gestures are. Just because he hasn’t shown you his violent side, though, doesn’t mean he lacks one.

Clementine made sure you understood that.

The fastest human runners in the Olympics can reach a speed of sixty-three kilometers per hour (about thirty-eight miles per hour for the barbarians still on the Imperial measurements) during a one hundred meter sprint, but a drider warrior has been clocked at going ninety kilometers (almost fifty-six miles) per hour at the San Ria massacre. She showed you the recovered footage, it’s certainly something to balk at. So yes, in a hypothetical situation where you try to run away, you’d be caught and quartered before you can even take in a second breath.

The gardens are just how you remembered from the day before, soft, bioluminescent flowers lighting the pathway in a delicate cold blue light. You try to draw your thoughts from things less pleasant, the prince is beginning to look at you strangely. Or, you _think_ he’s looking at you strangely, you haven’t exactly had the experience to fully map out his facial expressions, but in any case, you uncurl your fist and try offering him a smile.

“Your mind is preoccupied,” he says in a passing observation.

“I’m… sorry, it’s just been a lot in the past few days.” When he says nothing, you try again, doing your best not to stumble over the words. “You know, I’ve gone from barely the rags on my back to… this,” you wave over the finery of the garden, “and it’s hard to pull myself out of having to think about how and when I’ll get my next transport contract from. Believe it or not, I keep panicking because I can’t remember where I parked my ship.”

That pulls the corner of his mouth up. “You didn’t bring a ship here.”

“I know, but humans are creatures of habit. It’s a hard mental check to stop.”

“I see.” After a long pause, he asks, “how did you end up being a pilot?”

“Oh,” you shrug, “I’m from a mining colony out in the Resynn Belt. We all could fly whatever the mine boss could get his hands on, and since the old bastard was a cheapskate, we all ended up able to adapt to whatever was thrown our way.” You pause, looking down at your fingers, silently cringing at saying _bastard_ when you were told to keep the language mild. “There was a crew that needed a pilot for a quick run up the solar system, and I volunteered. I just wanted a break from the dust and the minerals and the monotony, you know? I planned on coming back once the run was over with… but…” you shrug.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I… did, actually, even though it was hard at times. But it paid well, so long as you knew where to look for work.” That will probably be the closest you’ll come to admitting the smuggling gig for a long while. “Something is freeing about never having to stay in one place for long.”

He looks you over, then offers a single nod in agreement. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

A ping of annoyance runs through you, though you are relatively certain that the prince didn’t mean it in any kind of insulting way. But still, something about it rubs you the wrong way. "You do have siblings, right?" 

Immediately, he looks away. "None that remain alive." 

"Oh, shi- I mean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring that up or anything, I didn't know." You almost trip over yourself changing the subject, but you could _almost_ swear that someone mentioned that he had a brother and a sister. “Why don't- um, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

That puts him off even more. “I’m sure you have read or heard everything you need to know.”

You shake your head. “Reading about someone on paper is much different than _knowing_ them, Aksanos.”

He stops walking, standing in front of a tree. The ends of its branches fall towards the ground like tears, and the leaves’ glow pulses gently, as though an unreliable core powers the light, you can see its reflection in the glassiness of his eyes. “People have plenty of things to say about me.”

“Yes,” you respond, not actually believing what you say, “but rumors often don’t hold much truth when it’s about a single person.”

It works though, since when he turns back to you, he seems marginally more relaxed.

You try again, “do you enjoy going for walks in the garden?”

“Sometimes.” He reaches out, touching one of the tree’s vines, “only if I wish to be interrupted, though. If I need to be alone, then I must lock myself in my private chambers.”

“Right,” you say, remembering how _hands-on_ he is with his people and the war, “your duties must keep you busy. I can’t imagine having that much attention on me all day every day with very little time for myself.”

“You might have to start.”

Again, with the assumptions. But, you suppose, a fair one, since you have been contracted to stay here for quite some time. You haven’t felt any waves of attention, yet, however, you suspect they will begin shortly.

The prince must have noticed your expressions darkening, because he is quick to add, “I could have someone keeping any news articles from circulating about you, if you wish to remain anonymous, but that won’t stop any word of mouth rumors from flying around.”

God, your reputation is going to be in tatters when you leave, but it doesn’t matter. You were promised a new one.

“It’s fine, I doubt it will do anything, anyway.” You fold your hands together. “I suppose I will eventually get used to it.”

His hand reaches over, and before you can even think about _what_ he is doing, he cups your face, the golden claws gently pressing up against your skin. It’s a stupid observation, one you’ve made many times before, but the prince is… tall. Large. Exceptionally so, to the point where he has to bend over so that you don’t have to crane your neck merely to make eye contact. A few strands of hair fall over his shoulder, swaying with the prince’s slight movement as his thumb runs along your chin. He smells like cinnamon and cedar wood, you realize, and wonder if it’s some kind of imported aftershave or cologne.

“You will tell me if, by any chance, you begin to feel overwhelmed.” He says in a quiet demand.

“I- I will,” you stammer.

“I don’t like it when people lie to me.”

“I won’t,” you lie.

He pets some hair away from your face, then pulls away. “The Mandarian blossoms are in bloom, I believe you will enjoy them.”

You follow him again, sticking as close to his side as you can manage without being impaled by his legs. There is dew along the ground, which you think is strange since the plants don’t have a normal day cycle to collect it in. Maybe it’s from the atmospheric controllers? Do they have heating elements in the ground to help keep the soil at acceptable temperatures? The garden seems impossibly lush for being underground, and while you know that vegetation that needs minimal to no sunlight naturally exist, surely some of these plants are engineered in some way or another to get their nutrients from methods other than light.

You walk along the path, broken pieces of stones polished and cobbled together, the ground buffed to a dull gleam. The prince glances at you every now and then, probably trying to gauge your mood in the silence that has overtaken you as you think, brows furrowed.

“You look like you want to ask me something.”

Astute observation. He’s already begun to read your expressions in such a short time, you are kind of torn about how you feel about it. On one hand, it’s interesting how quickly he was able to gauge your emotional response, but also, you were never the most perfect liar to begin with, and now you have to get better. “I don’t want to bother you with mundane questions.”

He offers you a pair of arched brows. “Try me.”

You fold your fingers together, chewing on your lip. “Is there a single atmospheric unit that controls the climate throughout the entire palace? Or is it lots of little, separate systems that are operated by different people at different times?” When the prince looks a bit taken aback, you try to clarify why you want to know. “Well, a larger, single unit would be easier to manage, with one control panel to plug in the numbers with, but the energy loss between it and the far reaches of the palace would be considerable, whereas the smaller units would be preferable for certain spaces that need certain conditions without the worry of crossing any two opposite settings… but…” you tap one of your fingers against your lower lip as you try to strain your eyes towards the ceiling. “I don’t see any vents.”

The prince doesn’t seem to know how to respond, because it takes a moment for him to offer up any kind of reaction. He looks at you, then says, “I don’t know.”

You figured he wouldn’t, after all, how many people in metropolises know the model and efficiency of the AC or heating units of their houses and workplaces? But you were still curious, so you tried shooting in the dark. And missed. Maybe you’d bug the drow servant about it.

“Elias, do you know if our atmospheric control unit is a unified system or in separate sections?” The prince is speaking into his watch, much to your surprise, with a focused look on his face.

After just a moment, another voice answers. “Uh, it’s a unified system, _keias_.” 

“That will be all.” the prince flips something on his watch and turns back to you, and says, as though you didn’t hear the entire exchange. “It’s a unified system.”

“Oh!” You try to babble on, even though your brain wants to immediately jump to strategizing, “that means that there are probably heating plates underneath the soil to keep everything within their acceptable temperatures. My apartment is a lot cooler than everywhere else I’ve been, which is great because I’m used to those almost unbearable temperatures we’d have to keep the mining pod units to save power.”

“I didn’t realize you wouldn’t handle the heat well.”

“Well, whoever was in charge of my accommodations did.” You have already decided to give whatever staff assigned to you as many compliments as possible.

And, on another note, you realize suddenly that you are _starving._ “You know what? I bet breakfast is ready. Maybe we should head back to my quarters?”

“If you wish,” he responds, offering a hand in your direction. “I could show you the blossoms some other time.”

“I would very much enjoy that,” you say, hesitating only briefly before taking his hand. His fingers are long, spindly, and thin, his razor-sharp nails could easily dig into your wrists and cut open your veins. The prince doesn’t, though, and is surprisingly gentle, cradling your hand as though it is a frail bird. That’s how you walk back to your apartment, as though the two of you are a honeymoon couple, unable to keep from touching each other for long. It’s… awkward, at least, for you, because of how much taller the prince is from you, but he doesn’t seem to find anything strange with the arrangement.

The drow servant had already finished setting the table, an extra drider-sized chair now placed where two humanoid ones had been. Before you sit down, you dodge out around the furniture to where she is putting the finishing garnishes on the plates, and whispers, “is there anything that you need me to do?”

She offers a confused look.

“I mean help with. Do you need me to get out a pitcher of water or anything?”

The drow servant’s brow furrows before she gives a simple shake of her head.

“Alright, just checking.” You step back over to your chair and take a seat, placing a napkin in your lap since you’re clearly not a savage, and give the prince a smile.

Breakfast is uneventful, which you believe is better than _really_ eventful. You could definitely go without jumping through all those mental hoops of having to keep your guard up, and the prince doesn’t seem to be in a talkative mood anymore. Briefly, you wonder if you insulted him in some way, or maybe he’s just as drained as you and doesn’t feel like speaking. Or perhaps he’s planning a creative way to execute you. Either scenario is just as likely, you think. Once you and the prince are finished eating, he excuses himself from your presence.

“Before I leave,” he says, twisting his powerful body around to face you once more. “My family is holding an official dinner to welcome you into our family tomorrow evening.”

“Oh, how kind of them. What time is it?”

“I’ve already declined your invitation.”

It takes you a moment to fully understand what he said. “I’m… not going to the dinner being held in my honor?”

“No, you aren’t.”

You think for a moment, not looking him in the eye. “Alright,” you say, “I… I trust your judgment.”

Another lie.

His eyes soften, only briefly, and he places a hand on your shoulder. “I would not do this if I did not think it was necessary.”

You nod. “Of course.”

After he leaves, you go sit on the couch, staring straight at the wall, your brain simmering with the information you had collected during the day. So little things, you begin to feel frustrated with what you’ve scrambled together, and you want to leave _now._ It’s been two days, and you’re already over this shit.

“My lady, if I may?”

You spin around and see the understanding eyes of the drow servant, her old, wizened hands drying against her apron. Taking a deep, grounding breath, you say, “yes?”

“The _keias_ means no insult to you or your person when he refused the invitation.” The drow servant tucks an escaped tuft of hair back behind her pointed ear. “His family is, as I’m sure you know, rather… Toxic. I believe he doesn’t wish to expose you to such drama so soon after your arrival, as it might overwhelm you. His cousin is especially known for stirring up trouble, and he is, apparently, just itching to see you.”

You sit up a little taller, offering up a weak smile. The drow servant had completely misunderstood your close miss to tears, but still, her concern is deeply appreciated. “And which cousin is this? I apologize, my memory is a bit out of sorts today.”

“It’s of no trouble at all, my lady. The cousin I speak of is the vice-marshal of the royal fleet, Thyone Iakhose.”

Oh, _that_ asshole. “Thank you.” You pause, then realize something that you lack the knowledge of. “And, again, I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch your name.”

“Of course, my lady. I am called Semele.”

“Thank you, Semele. I appreciate your kindness.” You stand, gripping the side of the couch as you try to think of what you plan on doing. “I’m going to be in my room for a while. I need to be alone.”

She nods, “I understand.”

You make sure to shut the door and lock it behind you, even though you are reasonably certain that Semele would have the keys to it anyway. Though you doubt that she is the type to break it down to see just what you are up to, you can never be too careful now. You are, after all, deep in enemy territory, and everyone is suspect. This isn’t like neutral regions where whoever you meet has a 50/50 chance of turning you into some organization for some extra coin, anyone here would report odd behavior, and that’s it for you. It’s over.

There, up on the ceiling. A small square, one that you might barely fit through one you removed the finely cut grate covering it. If you scooted the bookshelf just so, you’d be able to climb up and into the atmosphere control vents. Maybe you should ask the Starward Matchmakers™ representative before you go do something reckless, but she’s not here, and you’re getting impatient. The bookshelf is heavy, but you manage to push it out from the wall, moving the one side so that it sits right under the grate, and then you climb. It’s latched on one side for easy-access maintenance, and it swings open as you press the release button.

Maybe you’ll end up going to that dinner, after all.

Just not as a guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw here's what Clem looks like:  
> https://cozycryptidcorner.tumblr.com/post/618408953290817536/clementine-montague-from-the-mad-prince


	4. Reconnaissance

Okay, so you might have had to immediately climb back down to grab your tablet. No big deal, just a sensor that would have alerted whoever is at the helm of movement, and you need to make sure that it won’t be pinging out in distress that someone is banging around in the atmospheric control ducts. You’ve already pestered Elias about the wireless network service, and he gave you the information of one that is most certainly being monitored very, very carefully, and absolutely would not be shared with a machine that keeps everyone from suffocating. More than likely, the atmo ducts have an internal system, one that you might be able to tap into with a handy-dandy wire plugged into your trustee tablet.

It’s the oldest trick in the book to the point where most people don’t even think of it, to begin with, and instead have all these fancy smancy firewalls that keep all incoming signals from coming close enough to touch the cyberspace, but forget that someone could just plug themselves in and immediately have the same kind of access for far fewer tears. The driders, apparently, are no different than your usual hits and have almost no sort of internal security to defend from any internal attacks, almost like they never thought that would happen. You run a quick codebreaker app, and within moments, you’re in, a two-dimensional map of the floor blinking onto the screen as the information downloads.

A little red tracker signals which station your tablet plugs into, showing your apartment label as 123412.5, which isn’t anywhere near as helpful as you’d thought it would be. What you had hoped was that all the rooms would be designated nice and dandy with the names of people and what they are used for, but nope. Gods forbid for anything to be remotely easy for you! Biting your lip down, you try to make sense of the numbers, thinking that maybe it has to do with your… birthdate? No. Birthplace? No. Your name, somehow? No. But something a little strange is that no other rooms on the floor have digits in any way close to yours. 346578, 346690, and 346744 are the ones right next to your apartment, which you don’t have to be a genius to notice they those are widely different from than the one you were given. While you can note the positions of rooms, you’re sure there’s some method of figuring which room is for whom, and maybe even a code for the names.

Sometimes the only way to crack a code is to look at a cheat sheet. You find the control panel for the motion sensors and turn them off. Instead of going around and barging into random people’s apartments (most humans don’t take kindly to that, you expect the driders to be the same), you decide to start poking around some industrial closets to see what you can see. Before you can begin worming your way through the ducts, though, a loud knock sounds on the door, your soul almost jumping into a different plane of reality from shock. Careful not to bang your head on the edge of the opening as you close it the flap, before silently hopping down the bookshelf and get to an acceptable altitude for your voice to be.

“Yes?”

“Ma’am? You asked me to tell you if I saw your servant. She just returned.”

“Oh!” You’re already pushing the bookshelf back up against the wall. “Thank you so much for letting me know. I’ll be out in just a minute.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

God, these stone floors are good for moving noiselessly. You don’t hear the drow maid as she retreats back to whatever chore she was doing, which means you probably couldn’t sense if she comes back. Good to know that you’re in a pretty vulnerable position, not that you didn’t know that already. Looking over the room one last time just to make sure everything seems reasonably normal, you unlock the door and leave, walking down the hallway and almost running into the Starward Matchmakers™ representative. After taking a generous step away to avoid getting mowed over, you let out a huffy breath.

“I was looking for you everywhere,” you bark, crossing your arms and glaring. “Where have you been? The prince showed up, I was floundering in the dark.”

“Oh, right,” she places a perfectly manicured hand on her forehead. “That’s what we’re here for, aren’t we. I almost forgot.”

It takes you a moment to process the fucking _oddity_ of her words. She almost _forgot?_ The Starward Matchmakers™ representative doesn’t _forget,_ she remembers everything about everything. This isn’t good. “Where were you?”

“I- I don’t recall… oh, that’s right. I went out to speak with the prince’s assistant. Elias.”

This does not bode well. “Alright, let’s go back to your room. I’m going to take a look at your processing chip.” If you so much as _breathed_ in ay which way to suggest that you wanted to peak at the Starward Matchmakers™ representative’s internal processors, she would typically take that as an invitation for a whack. But she doesn’t even raise her hand in a threat, only follows you to the wide-open door and inside without a word of protest.

Once the door is shut (the Starward Matchmakers™ representative is particular about her privacy), you gently tilt her head back, then fiddle around on the side of her neck until you find a control panel. Ugh, these newer models are so goddamn lifelike that most people can hardly tell the difference, but that means that someone unfamiliar with the mechanics is going to have a rougher time figuring out what goes where. After a moment of fiddling around, though, you find a corner of her artificial skin that presses down like a button, and out pops a chunk of metal and skin-like silicone. The exposed insides _look_ like raw muscle, which was most certainly a conscious choice from the manufacturer. They want the androids convincingly humanesque down to the literal bloody details, almost as if they’re playing a game of gods.

It’s terribly stupid.

And incredibly inconvenient.

You reach between two of the twitching muscles with a finger, biting down on your tongue to keep from making any noises. After just a moment of digging through the pulsing wetness, you find a button that you _hope_ is a shutdown override, pressing it down until you feel it click. Instantly, the Starward Matchmakers™ representative’s eyes flicker as she falls back onto the bed, still as a board. Or a corpse. Calmly as a phantom, you stand over her, staring down at her blossom covered blouse as you try to build up the courage to rip open her chest. Only after taking in a generous breath do you bend over, fingers outstretched to work open the first button. Her eyes open just before you get the chance to even graze the fabric, and her voice, cool and devoid of emotion, speaks.

“Initiate full shutdown?”

You shout. Actually, it’s more of a quiet, rather undignified shriek, one that you would never openly admit to making. While you had expected to give some kind of voice command to open up her central circuitry unit, you didn’t realize she would do…. That. Look at you with those empty blue eyes, her light hair still in some kind of impossibly perfect style, her mouth moving but without _her_ voice. And to think she kicked your ass a nigh forty-eight hours earlier.

“Initiate full shutdown?” Her prerecorded voice asks once more.

“No, no.” You find your footing, creeping back over to where you were. Maybe you don’t have to get all up in her business, after all. “Commence full system diagnostics.”

It takes a moment for the command to process.

“Commencing full system diagnostics. Estimated time of completion; 24.5 hours.”

Internally, you’re screaming. These fucking fancy pieces of machinery and their ‘high functioning’ abilities to perform like humans until one of them breaks a nail and it’s a week in the shop until everything’s better.

“Correction: estimated time of full systems diagnostics report will be completed in 26.77 hours.”

You’re going to grind your teeth to dust on this mission, you think, looking at the clock and trying to even your breathing. One day, just one day, and then everything is going to be fine. You’re fine. This is fine. Everything is fine, fine, fine, fine, _fine._

When you leave her room, you’re careful to shut the door behind you, though you don’t lock it. You’d like to get back inside without revealing your advanced lockpicking skills, and you don’t really have it in you to request a second set of bedroom keys from the drow servant. Not yet, anyway. Without anything much else to do, you go back to your room, though not to try shimmying your way through the atmo ducts again. Instead, you throw yourself onto your bed with your tablet and do your absolute darndest to distract yourself from everything else until it’s time to eat. The prince doesn’t request your company for the rest of the day, so you try to keep your heart from bubbling over with anxiety and keep your eyes and brain focused on _Funny Vine.26 Video Compilation 55, TRY NOT TO LAUGH OR SMILE._

Suddenly you’re awake, and it takes you a moment to realize that you must have fallen asleep at some point in the video. The tablet screen is off, you can’t see it in the blackness of the room, so you feel around for it until your fingers hit the hard glass-like material of a screen. Dim light fills the room as you press into the button on the side, the shadows long and looming. You sit up quick enough that a wave of dizziness washes over your skull, your heartbeat throbbing throughout your body and into your fingers. It’s already noon?

You slip out of your bed, biting your bottom lip, checking to make sure that your door is still locked out of a paranoid habit you developed while working freelance. The handle doesn’t budge. Even though the drow servant has a set of keys, you don’t think that she’s the type to break into someone’s room while they are sleeping. Letting out a slight huff of breath, you flip the lock, quietly opening the door to look before you leave just in case the prince is lurking out in the common area like yesterday. You don’t see him near the bookshelf, or over by the dining room, but that’s where your scope of vision unfortunately ends.

Taking a gamble, you step out, smoothing down the front of your shirt. The drow servant is working over by the cabinets, you think she’s cleaning something out, and she’s quick to approach once she catches sight of you. “Good morning, ma’am! Apologies for not waking you, but I suspected you wished to remain sleeping.”

You yawn, rubbing the edge of your eye. “You suspected correct, thank you. Has the prince… erm… dropped by, at all, looking for me?”

“His assistant called asking if you were available to accompany the _keias_ on another walk in the gardens, but I informed him that you were asleep. You have been requested to contact the assistant at your leisure. I have food ready to warm up if you would like, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” you say, distractedly, “I would appreciate that. I’m… going to get dressed while you heat the food.”

“Excellent, I shall begin at once, ma’am.”

In a bit of a haze, you wander back to your room, debating on how to handle the day with the Starward Matchmakers™ representative down for the count in a vulnerable position. You aren’t absolutely certain, but the fact that the drow attendant, Elias, was the last person she remembers going to meet is highly suspect. No duh. This has got to be some kind of trap, or at the very least, a test. Until you get more information, it’s probably most beneficial to go on and act like nothing is happening. You get ready for the day, careful to select an outfit that would be considered more presentable to the public than the last.

You eat breakfast, something relatively familiar to your taste buds, and radio the drow attendant to let him know that you can meet the prince whenever he’s ready. The drow attendant politely informs you that he’ll get back to you on that. An hour passes. To say that you’re bored wouldn’t exactly be all the way correct, but you’re definitely going stir-crazy, half expecting that every time you turn your head, the prince would be crouched in any of the corners you currently aren’t looking at. So, instead of staying on the couch, staring blankly up at the ceiling, you grab your tablet and scoot on out of there.

While growing up as a miner might have aided in your abilities to handle tunnels and rocky structures, you never really had to deal with gravity in those situations. Really, the only thing you had to worry about were the buzzermites, little critters that didn’t need to breathe, but could a heavy number on any electrical equipment. Here, though. Let’s just say that the critters are more… predatory. Terrifying. So your little exploration expedition is weighed down by all the random excuses you have to come up with if someone gets a little accusatory.

_What are you doing here,_ aw, nothing, totally not trying to figure out the algorithms of the room labels. Definitely not looking over the downloaded map right now and trying to figure out if that door is a closet or someone else’s apartment. Calmly, you count the number of rooms you’ve passed on the map, trying to correlate that to what you’ve seen, one, two, three, four, _crash._ Something spills out onto the floor, and you stumble backward in a few shaky steps. After just a moment, you manage to regain both your balance and focus your vision, finding that you nearly managed to mow over a drow servant and their cart.

“Oh fu- I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there!” You immediately help with the cleanup, bending over to gather what you can in your arms, noticing a surplus of decorative towels and sheets, all resembling each other in the same silver and violet pattern. A cart that had just made an untimely introduction the side of your thigh holds more of the same shattered-shaped, glittering embroidery, so you do your best to dump what you had gathered neatly onto the top of the pile.

“I should have known better than to try to haul twice the load in a single run,” they say, though their voice is somewhat strained. The drow servant doesn’t seem to notice you, or, at least, _your species,_ just that your voice is apologetic and around the same height as most other of the serving class. It doesn’t help that they are desperately trying to balance the wave of pillows and towels that had tipped over on their head, their dusty gray arms wrapped around the fabric. You don’t think it would matter if their face were uncovered or not, since their attention seems to be solely on keeping the mountain from becoming unbalanced before they can gently set everything back on the already overflowing pile of the cart.

Already, though, some of the pillows fall over the edge once more. You hastily move to catch them before they fall, or at least to quickly pick them up off the floor if you happen to miss. “It apparently worked for a bit,” you gander, looking over their shoulder to see that one of the doors was open. A storage unit. You try to commit the odd symbol to memory, desperately trying to memorize the sharp angles and sliding curves of the script in the second it would take to not look too terribly suspicious. “Let me help you ease the amount of cargo, I think that if I carry a couple of things, it won’t be in any more danger of tipping over.”

“Oh, do you have the time?” The drow asks, clearly thrilled for the help, before they manage to get a glimpse of your face. Their jaw hangs open, only for a hot second, before their face pales in what you can only imagine is terrible panic.

“I mean,” you try to calm the situation down, “I don’t really have anything better to do, to be quite honest.” It didn’t seem like that had the effect you wanted it to, so you try, “you look like you’re in a terrible hurry, and I want to help, so I’m going to start walking, and you’re going to tell me which way I’m going.”

That seems to snap them out of their stupor. “Of- of course, if it pleases you, your grace. Straight up ahead, I will get the correct door to open.” All prim and proper, as though you hadn’t just caught them entirely out of sorts. Whatever training they must get must be ridiculously good for them to be able to snap back from that kind of panic, or maybe prior experience has taught them not to shed too many emotions.

Whatever the case, you walk, trailing to the side of the cart with the intention of catching anything else that decides to stray. And, to be fair to the drow servant, the room that the load is supposed to go to _is_ reasonably far from the closet. The distance only helps to further cement the map into your brain, now that you’ve managed to physically see for yourself where two of the locations are. The servant holds out one of their wrists, their left one, you notice, and the keypad on the wall makes a satisfied _beep_ in response. The door unlocks, and the drow servant turns the old-fashioned handle to let you in first, standing to the side.

You step into the room, mentally calculating how much you can snoop before it looks suspicious, and decide that you have to play it easy for now, especially with your only way out virtually down for the count, possibly infected with some sort of trojan virus. So you step away from the door, sticking to the wall, staring at the fairly similar, yet unique layout of the new and entirely different suite. The architecture is familiar enough that you can tell that it is, in fact, part of the same building and era, but changed just enough that you would know if you had accidentally wandered into it thinking it was yours. Interesting. You wonder if those designing the underground had a different spin on every suite, or if there are only two or three repeating designs. You suppose you’ll find out eventually.

“I’ll take those,” the drow servant says, gathering the bunch of cloth out of your arms and wandering off to what you assume is the restroom.

“Someone looks like they’re redecorating,” you say in a simple observation. Everything else about the room is completely stripped away, the humanoid-made couches missing their cushions, all the cabinets in the kitchen area open and empty.

“Not redecorating,” the drow servant says, then seems mildly hesitant to add, “the ambassador has been… replaced.”

“Oh.” You have no idea who they’re talking about, but now you know that you’re on a floor with a bunch of important people. Which you had probably known, you think you had a very brief, very rushed lesson about the importance of who will most likely be sharing similar accommodations. Still, hearing it from of a native is different than the hazy guesses offered up to you by an overpaid military official who barely knows what was going on twenty light-years beyond the border. You suppose that if someone… not you, of course, but _someone_ wishing to wreak havoc could inflict a lot of intergalactic political damage just by briefly messing with the air filters on this exact floor.

Then you realize the choice of words being used. “Replaced?”

The drow servant shakes their head. “It isn’t my place, your grace.”

“Of course,” you blink, taking a step towards the door, “I’ll get out of your hair, then. Sorry about running into your cart in the hallway.”

“Oh- please don’t apologize, your grace, it was my own fault for being so careless with myself!”

“No, you were just trying to do your job efficiently, and I got in your way.” You’re already in the hallway, but you pause, and try to consider how they might feel if your job- no, if your _life_ was on the line because you accidentally ran over the queen of England with a serving tray. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

There’s an abundance of relief on their face, but also a carefully hidden smidgen of suspicion, one you wouldn’t have been able to sniff out if you weren’t so well-versed in winning people over to believing whatever you promise. “I know what you’re thinking,” you say, holding up your hands in surrender, “you think that I want something in return, and you’re right.”

They bite. “What… what is it, your grace?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Y-your grace?”

“That, yeah.” You wave your hand. “It’s annoying. Just call me by my first name, ‘miss’ or ‘ma’am’ if you absolutely must. If the prince has some kind of weird fetish over being worshipped, you can do what you need in his presence, but when he’s not around, it’s fine to just be casual, m’kay?”

It takes a moment for them to fully process what you’re saying. “M-miss?”

“That’s it.” You grin, placing your hands on your hips. “You got it already. Maybe spread the word about this, too.”

They nod.

“Alright, it was nice getting to know you!” You offer a little wave, then get on out of there. Even though you managed to appear cool as a cucumber, your heart is hammering inside your ribcage. All it takes is this one servant to report your odd behavior, you’re sure, and it’s all over. You don’t know _how_ exactly it would be over, but surely they’d figure out that you’re trying to do reconnaissance through the servants. It is one of the oldest tricks in the book. The human book, you guess, but still _the book._ Oh god, you might throw up. You need to eat something, maybe watch a flick to get your mind off the shakingly reckless shit that you’ve been up to.

No such luck though, because _why_ would the universe see fit to ease your pain in the slightest? Why would you be so silly to think that? How could you hope for anything outside of the prince, standing in the middle of the common space like a goddamn apparition, waiting, apparently, for _you._

“Oh, hey,” you say in what you imagine a perfectly normal nonchalant greeting should be like. “Your assistant didn’t tell me you were coming, so… um, I went for a walk.”

“You look unwell.”

Goddamnit, you probably look like you’ve wandered out of a nightmare. “I didn’t sleep great last night.”

“Was the bed not to your liking? Are the pillows too stiff or soft for your neck?” He immediately tenses, and you can feel a soft aura of bloodlust roll off him like a dewdrop from a flower.

You swallow thickly. “No, the bed is amazing. I just… couldn’t get to sleep. My mind wouldn’t settle.”

“Stress.” He says as though he had known from the moment you stepped through the door, and not as though he were, just moments before, ready to strangle whoever put together your room. “You’re stressed. This is stressing for you?”

The room tilts slightly, but you catch yourself before you so much as wobble. _Yes, you’re stressed,_ you want to scream but don’t. There are too many variables, too many people for his anger to flow towards. You reach up and rub your temples, taking in a shaking breath, knowing that you’re on the precipice of a panic attack. Sitting would be deeply preferable, but you would have to shove your way past the prince, and you don’t think that the two of you are on that level of understanding quite yet. He might think- _he might think-_

You take another breath, deep, gaping, and balance yourself on the bookshelf. _Don’t lie to me, _the prince’s voice echoes in your head as you open your mouth to speak the single most used falsehood in the history of humankind. “I’m fine.”__

“Perhaps you believe that,” the prince says, offering a steadying arm, which you hesitantly take, “but it appears that gravity sickness has begun to catch up with you.”

_Lolth’s gravity is almost twice more than you are used to,_ Clementine had said once, drumming her short fingernails against a steel table, _I give you one week at best before you really start feeling it all up inside those bones and muscles._

God, you hate it when she’s right. And you especially hate that barely three days have passed and you already want to lay down and go into a three-year coma.

“You need to expand your center of gravity,” the prince, at least, sounds like he knows what he speaks of, and he generously steps out of your way. You can take a few shaky steps forward and lay down on the couch, your brain swimming around in circles as your muscles twitch occasionally. Then, after a moment of silence, he reaches a hand down and gently pets your hair. “You mustn’t be so crass with your own health. I understand that ‘fine’ doesn’t at all mean its exact definition when humans use it in the same context,” he continues, the sharpness of his claws never once pressing hard enough to hurt, not even by accident, “however, I don’t wish for you to use it when it comes to your own safety.”

“Alright,” you agree quietly, your hands resting on your hammering chest. Then, in an even more subdued voice, you ask, “are…. you going to stay?”

His hands don’t stop their movements. “Do you wish me to leave?”

You have to think about it for a moment, because even though your immediate instinct is _yes, please leave me be,_ you bite your lip down and realize that you don’t want to deal with this all alone. You really don’t know what’s gotten into you, later you might convince yourself that you like the way his fingers move against your scalp and nothing else. _Or,_ a deeper part of yourself that you rarely listen to whispers, _you’re finally tired of dealing with this kind of shit solo._ Whatever the case, you open your mouth, fully intending to send him away. But something else comes out instead.

“No, don’t go.”


	5. Exhaustion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i live, bitch

???? After Arrival

Your mouth is dry.

It hurts to swallow, but doing so is a habit that your body cannot break. So you go through the motions even with the pain, the tongue pressing up against the roof of your mouth, the muscles in your cheeks trying to push the thick, almost nonexistent saliva down into your raw throat. The stone of the floor is cool against your feverish skin, trying to ignore the way little rocks and grit dig into your cheek. Every breath you take is ragged and weak, the hunger penetrating through your muscles and into your very bones. If you had the emotional energy, you might try to cough up a few tears to cry, but you feel nothing other than a grim determination to succeed.

If he wanted you dead, he would have killed you right where you had stood, braced to run, even when you knew it was futile. He could have plucked out your heart and watched you with those soulless black eyes as you bled out on the floor, crying for a deity who couldn’t be bothered to answer your tearful prayers.

A panel on the door opens, and you hear the quiet  _ tsk tsk _ of a disapproving servant as she reaches in and retrieves your untouched meal tray.

“You must keep your strength up,  _ kore,”  _ she says, but you don’t answer.

* * *

_ Now _

There’s buzzing flare in the top of your skull, right on the edge of your brain. It reminds you kind of those headaches you would get if you forgot to drink through an entire day, a dull, throbbing thing that threatens to grow even stronger if there isn’t a quick solution. Your lips are getting cracked from having to breath out of your mouth, your nose stuffed up from a variety of different things. Dust, probably, for one, but maybe also the fact that you’re trying not to cry, though your eyes are still tearing up, and since they aren’t escaping normally, they’re just slipping back into your body running out your nose.

“Should I call for a doctor?”

You almost start at his voice, though it’s not like you just forgot the prince’s presence, especially not with the way that he gently plays with your hair. The idea of having to see someone else who is just as unfamiliar right now as everything else feels just as unwanted as the aching in your joints. “I’d rather not, no.”

“Would you rather go to bed?”

You mull the idea over, squinting at the light despite its dimness. Yes, you want to go to bed, you decide, but then immediately wonder if the prince was going to follow you to your room. While casual murder might be his mode of operation, he doesn’t seem to be the type to do  _ that, _ so you don’t think you have to worry about being alone with him in an enclosed space. Even though you are pretty confident that there isn’t any incriminated evidence that’s currently  _ out, _ to have him in there, potentially poking around, you aren’t so sold on that idea.

On the other hand, though, isn’t the welcome dinner that you obviously aren’t even thinking about going to happening tonight? The one where you  _ aren’t  _ planning to spy on the goings-on just to get a taste of the political strife happening all around the underground palace? Maybe if you go to bed, he’ll get out of your way quickly so you can do some internal investigating. Or perhaps he’ll stick around for a little longer than anticipated, running the risk of something slipping, either out of you or out of your personal belongings.

Hell, you’re not one to back away from risk. “Yes.”

He helps you up, doing most of the muscle work since your knees don’t want to do their job. You almost stumble into him, grabbing onto one of his smooth, thin legs for support. Instead of seeming uncomfortable or put off in the slightest, he asks, “are you alright to walk?”

You grit your teeth because you aren’t going to fold this quickly into being dependant on someone for something, even as small as letting him carry you to the bedroom. Goddamnit, you’re going to make this walk yourself or die trying. “I’m good, I just-"

Your vision spots out.

The light glares down at your eyes, far harsher than you are ready for when you open them. The bed you lay on is thin, barely wide enough to keep your limbs from flopping off as long as they stay perfectly straight and unbent. Unfortunately, your clothes are gone, replaced by a dull brown dress, long and straight, and judging by the coolness running along your spine, loosely tied, if not all the way open, at the back. Talking, there’s talking happening somewhere to the side, tense, worried words shooting back and forth between two… maybe three people.

“She should have been checked in when she first arrived.”

“I sent her the notifs based on her contact info, and even went so far as to try to get her assistance involved, but the damn machine stopped all responses yesterday-”

“You should have told  _ me.” _

“Of- of course,  _ keias, _ a thousand apologies, you’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”

“It won’t, you are very correct.”

You sit up, terrified that this might end in bloodshed if you listlessly eavesdrop even more than you already have. Big mistake, you discover, as a sharp punch drills through your skull, your fingers shooting up to press against your temples, and then you  _ whimper. _ You don’t mean to do that, in fact, the moment the sound resonated through your body, you make it stop, your lungs shaking with the effort, but the damage is already done. As much as you like capitalizing on those who underestimate you, outwardly showing weakness? Not your style, not at all, so you take in a gulping breath and  _ hold it. _

“Do something!” The prince is at your side, how did he end up there so fast? “She is in pain, fix it.”

“Of course, sire, one moment, and I’ll get out-”

“I don’t care to hear the specifics.” His hands fold over yours, adding a smidgen of pressure that actually eases the pain somewhat. “Get it done.”

A sharp, small pinch nicks the side of your neck, a crisp, palming feeling quickly running through your veins, overwhelming the pain like a tidal wave. It doesn’t go away, though, merely… sinks to the back, while whatever settles in your blood overshadows it significantly. Slowly, you open your eyes, your breath calming, your muscles relaxing, finding the prince barely a few inches away, the closest he has been physically, ever. The lights dull slightly, did the doctor turn those down for you? Everything looks like there’s some sort of halo of energy around everything, and the prince seems to fizzle with it. You need to touch it, actually, so you reach out and place your fingers against his forehead.

“Hey there,” you say, your head feeling wayyyyyyyyyyyyy lighter than usual.

“What was that?” The prince says in his grumpy shlumpy voice, looking over at a tall, thin figure that you can’t quite make out.

“A numbing agent,  _ keias,”  _ the other person says, “fast-acting but not without its side effects. She will be back to normal within a few hours, which is plenty of time to find a better long term solution.”

“Side effects?” The prince says as you pet the side of his ridiculously smooth face.

“Well,” the doctor gestures in your general direction, “it doesn’t just dull the pain receptors in the brain; unfortunately, it also dulls everything else. Her hand-eye coordination is off, her balance is warped, and her ability to sense dangerous situations is significantly lower than what it normally is. Relatively speaking, sire, she’s drunk.”

You snort, turning over in the direction the blobby spot in your vision is speaking. “Excuse you, but a milliliter of whatever isn’t going to do anything to me, bud, I once drank an entire bottle of Moseranian aged wine, and I may not remember that night, but I  _ survived, _ so,” you shrug, waving your hands, “I’d like to see you do that and come out with your liver intact.”

“Like I said,  _ keias, _ she’s not in a normal state of mind at the moment,” the doctor says, and then adds, almost dubiously, “she might also be more likely to answer any questions truthfully.”

“Leave.” The prince doesn’t turn around to give the order; rather, he seems far more focused on you than he has been in a long while. “Find something to help that’s more than whatever this is.”

“Of course, sire.” A door opens and closes with the doctor’s exit, leaving the two of you alone.

You pat his head. “I’ve always wanted to touch your hair, it always seemed so nice and silky, like-” you giggle, “no offense, but like a spider’s web.”

“A spider’s web,” the prince repeats, his eyes squinting, his head tilting to the side. “Spiders are common creatures where you are from?”

“Yeah, even more than rats or other pests. Mining stations are great for them because I guess space lice is a good source of food, and they don’t need to breathe too much air, so if they get accidentally locked in a no-air zone, they’re more likely to survive. The little guys were a  _ real _ problem where I came from.” You giggle, switching over your wrist so he could see a bite mark on the underside of your forearm. “I got bit by a blue recluse once.”

He reaches out, taking your arm into his hands so he can take a more intimate look at it. “And the… blue recluse, are they poisonous?”

“Oh, yeah, horrifically so.” You wave your other hand, laughing it off. “I almost died, but whatever.”

A puff of breath escapes from him, you can’t tell if he’s laughing with you or exasperated. He lifts your hand up to his mouth and kisses the heel of your wrist. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

You don’t answer.

“I suppose, then, what I really wish to know is how you handle the drider species as a whole,” he says, “I understand the similarities between spiders and us are rather, er, distastefully similar.”

“I mean, the eight legs. Yeah.”

“Do you find me hideous?”

You balk, sure that you heard him wrong. “I- do I what?”

“Do you find my appearance unnerving?” He asks. “I understand that spiders tend are disconcerting to your kind, though with good evolutionary reason.”

“Weeeeeeeelllll I wouldn’t say hideous. Or disconcerting. And I don’t think it’s because of the spider legs, maybe it’s because of how….” you forget the word, trying to mime it with your hand. “Um, seismic isn’t what I mean, uh… big? Kind of. You take up space, and that makes me nervous.”

“I see.”

You can’t tell if he’s disappointed in you, and  _ no, _ don’t want that, so you try to clear up what you mean. “Most other people I know have been threats,” you say, “on the mining colony and, um, as a pilot, but I’ve always been able to somehow rise above the game and walk out scotch free. But I don’t know you, ok? I like knowing things because then I’d find ways to get out of a situation if stuff blows up, and I don’t really know you, except that you could kill me far easier than I could kill you. I don’t like that.”

The prince hums, a bit thoughtfully, reaching over and brushing some stray hair strands that had fallen in your face without you noticing. The brightness in the lighting suddenly changes, the electricity humming in your ears like a solar mite. “That is understandable.”

“It’s all unfamiliar.” You squint at the fluctuating lighting in the room. “And the expectations of everyone is worse than…” you trail off, tightening your mouth in the realization that you might have let out more than you should have.

“The expectations of  _ what.”  _ The prince’s body stiffens considerably, his hands no longer holding onto your kindly. They’re holding onto you like he is about to see how much pressure you can withstand before your bones start cracking.

“The- the-”  _ lie, lie, lie, _ a voice in your head hisses urgently. Clear everything out. Mislead, but don’t speak anything false you can’t remember. “You don’t think the match of the supposed insane heir of Lolth, the biggest player in the opposing force in a war, isn’t going to turn many heads? The Matchmakers aren’t even the ones to sit me down to go over everything like their protocol demands. Someone leaked the information to the press. I woke up one day to everyone, the military, the civic government, and all news companies within the quadrant trying to break their way into my ship.”

Everything melts again, his expression softening, his fingers resuming to tracing the scars from various mishaps on your bare arms. “The Matchmakers weren’t even able to reveal anything to you?”

“You didn’t know?” You fold your arms around yourself. “Headline news every single day from when the info leaked to when we entered the censor barrier, but I don’t doubt it’s still circulating even now.”

“I did not.” He sounds far away, deep in thought. “No one- no one dared to hurt you, did they?”

You think of the sparring sessions where Clementine tended to go really hard without any reason other than the thrill of the fight, and then the representative that favored pain as an effective method of teaching. “Torture? No, there wasn’t any torturing. It’s not like I would magically know anything more than the average person just because I was matched with you. There were…”

“There were what?”

“Ummmm, like deals. Offers. Big corporations that wanted a foothold in this territory. I didn’t get much more than a few contract messages before Starward Matchmakers cut off all contact from the outside so I could, um, ‘focus on integrating into Lolth’s society’,” you use air quotes there, rolling your eyes. “I just think they’re worried they might not be the only intermedial and supposedly neutral presence in both sides- your eyes, by the way? Are really, very pretty. Like kaleidoscope colors, but without the kaleidoscope.” You reach out, then stop, remembering it’s probably not a good idea to poke one of his eyeballs.

He doesn’t shy away from the aggressive hand gestures, only creeps slightly closer. “Surely the presence of the representative helps you now? With acclimating?”

“Uh,” is this like… a test? Does he want you to tell him what’s happened? You start playing with the end of your hospital dress, tugging at the threads along the hem, trying to come up with the words to play this in your favor. “She’s been infected with a virus.”

“I didn’t think people of her  _ caliber _ got sick.”

You let out a frustrated sigh. “No, no, an electric virus, like someone from the outside has managed to hack into her internal functions? People do it for corporate espionage, like, all the damn time.” When he appears to be absorbing the information as though it’s brand spanking new, you add, almost hesitantly, “didn’t you know about this?”

“No,” he says, calm, “I did not. When did this happen?”

“Yesterday she came back, all loopy and stuff. Had to shut her down for a full reboot, but this morning her diagnostics found a foreign programming, like a bug or something.” You yawn, placing your fingers in front of her mouth. “I thought you had something to do with it, so I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought-” he pauses, trying to come up with the words, “that I had something to do with that? Why?”

You shrug weakly, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”

“Do I seem to be the person who-” his voice trails off, his mouth closing sharply. “Have I done anything that made you seem unsafe?”

“No.” Maybe you should stop petting his hair while you talk about how untrustworthy you’ve found him in the last couple of days, but it’s so silky? And shiny? The black almost shimmers in the now-green light, it’s actually kind of fun to play with. “You’ve been way nicer than I’d thought you’d be.”

The prince is silent for a moment more. “How so?”

“Everyone told me that you’d be all rawrrrrrr,” you use your fingers for makeshift mandibles on either side of your mouth, “I’m gonna eat you, little girl, and toast to Satan with your blood, and make cute belts and stuff from your skin and wear your face like a hat! But it turns out you don’t eat orc babies because you believe they will give you strength.”

He stares you dead in the eye. “How do you know that I didn’t feed you orc infants during our first dinner?”

You stare, dumbly, and then you think if you open your eyes any wider, they might fall out of your skull. “Y-y-you did  _ not-” _

He laughs,  _ laughs, _ the sound as relieving and good, you feel the same kind of serene flow as when you first heard real, planet-made rain, a sudden shock at what it is, and then a warm feeling spreading out from your chest and down to your fingertips.

“You were joking? You were  _ joking,”  _ you say, and then you start giggling too because damn, that  _ was _ kind of funny, despite your initial terror at the thought of infanticide. Your vision sharpens, the shapes and angles of the prince becoming far more vibrant.

The door slides open, and your eyes fall onto the Bloody Doctor of the Kazzanine Run, a tall, thin, and rather gaunt elf holding up a medical tablet, those blackened eyes falling over onto you. On instinct, you grab for the closest thing you might be able to use as a weapon, in this case, the prince’s arm. “Ah,” they say, their voice familiar to you as the other person in the room earlier, “our lovely patient seems lucid enough to participate.”

You swallow thickly, your grip tightening around the prince’s arm as though it’s your only anchor to survival in this situation. “I thought you were dead.”

Indeed, the side of their face that has been hit by the laser blast of a rather resourceful sniper is marred with burn scars and discolored flesh, the corner of their mouth drooping down slightly despite the wickedly curved smile they wear like a painted mask. “Well, well, well, it looks like our favorite human girl has been keeping up with her government’s propaganda. No, I’m afraid that rumors of my demise have been grossly exaggerated.”

“Don’t leave me alone with them,” you whisper, low enough that only the prince will hear, and then slap on a halfhearted, “please.”

“Now, now, young lady,” they say, almost, condescendingly, “I’m here only to keep you alive, as my expertise in your species’ anatomy is not nearly as lacking as friends on Lolth.”

“From fucking  _ experimenting _ on unwilling test subjects!”

They flick a little vial of liquid with their yellow-tinged finger. “I won’t expect someone like you to agree. with my methods, despite their necessity.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

“One day you’ll understand, I’m sure.” They come closer, holding the glass vial out to the prince instead of daring to step into your kicking radius. “Lolth has a way of leaching out your spirit.”

You see, unable to come up with anything that wouldn’t make you seem unseemly, but you are  _ this _ close to ripping off one of the prince’s golden claws to stab that monster in the throat.

“I apologize a thousand times, sire, but I have yet to find a muscle strengthener dosage, so have her take a drop or two of the inhibitor before bed, this will only help her sleep through the night, staving off any migraine and muscle pain.”

“I didn’t ask for a temporary solution, Nisesh, I asked for something permanent.”

“I understand,  _ keias, _ but I must respectfully remind you that the tiniest, most minuscule detail could potentially  _ kill her,”  _ they look directly at you, eyes narrow, “so I must request that I take the time that I need in order to make sure everything is properly concocted.”

The prince places a hand on your head, almost in reassurance. “I suggest that you hurry.”

They bow as low as any dog looking for a modicum of approval from its master will bow. “Of course,  _ keias. _ If I may get started?”

“Do what you have to.”

As that monster leaves, you look at the vial in the prince’s hands, already deciding that you are not going to be taking it under any circumstances, not willing, anyway. Your stomach heats up as the room begins to tilt to the side, you recognize the urge to vomit the second your throat begins to tighten. “I need a bowl.”

“A bowl?”

“Or something, I’m about to throw up.”

You’ve never seen the prince  _ scramble, _ but he does so now, his legs skittering against the hard metal floor as he flies to the counter on the other side of the room, finding something with enough volume to hold your stomach contents, and returns just in time for you to seize it with both arms. You tilt your head forward as whatever was in your stomach flies out, coughing, spluttering, the bile burning the back of your throat as it shoves its way up. It takes a few moments for you to even manage to pull in a gasping, choking breath before another round ensues. The prince hovers over you, hands out but not touching, unsure if there is anything he can do to help.

“I’m done,” you cough, “and I’m ready to go to bed now.”

“Of- of course,” he says, looking somewhat frazzled for the first time since you’ve met him.

The vomit stays where you  _ hope _ that elfish abomination will be the one to have to deal with it, but you know there is probably an army of custodians that take care of that sort of thing. You have to change, though, and the prince respectfully steps out of the room while you do so, managing to finagle your arms to pull just enough of the buttons loose enough for the clinic dress’ removal. To be in your clothes again is a relief, the hospital gown made you feel kind of exposed, especially in the face of a war criminal you didn’t think you would ever manage to cross paths with. Your fingers start shaking as you tab the pad on the side of the door, opening it, and try to remain calm as you exit the room.

The prince waits for you to the side, hugging the wall to make himself smaller in case of passing workers. “Do you feel better?”

Your head is still light and fuzzy, but at least you’re able to comprehend that you’re high. Maybe the self-awareness will keep you from doing anything stupid. “A bit, but not fabulous.”

“Perhaps the substance was… unwarranted. Doctor Nisesh tends to be, how would you say it, ‘trigger happy’ when it comes to medications. I should have told them not to do it.”

“Don’t let them do anything to me.”

There is a pause. “You know I wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt you.”

_ ”Do not let them do anything to me.” _

The prince gives you a nod. “If you insist, then I shall see if there is another doctor versed in human anatomy available.”

“Good.” Your response is terse, but you don’t have it in you to be polite anymore.

He takes you to a waiting area, one with chairs facing towards two tunnels on opposite sides. On one end, a small, private tramcar waits, apparently for you, because he leads you to the open doors. The inside is plush, cushioned, and just the sort of disgustingly comfortable method of transit that you’d expect the royal family to have. And, since you’re a new addition, you suppose, you’re going to enjoy it, so you bounce onto one of the longer seats and lay your head down on the pillow.

“How long until we get back?”

“A few minutes,” the prince says, “it’s probably better if you rest, though, so if you wish to, then please do.”

“Right,” you say, laying your head down on the pillow, suddenly waking back up in your room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like comment and subscribe kids


	6. Depth

You miss the party, which is no big deal. Really.

Nothing to worry about at all.

You were just going to go poking around to find all that juicy gossip to bring back home if you ever end up getting off this hellish planet. The glimmering black metal that holds your bathroom mirror is a little too well wielded for you to pull off for a makeshift weapon, you discover, as you try your damndest to wriggle one of the sharper points back and forth to snap off. Curse this excellent example of Lolth craftsmanship.

“Breakfast is ready, ma’am!”

“I’ll be out in a minute!” You stare at yourself in the mirror, trying to ignore the dark crescents beneath your eyes, despite however long you had managed to sleep. Given that the last thing you remember before waking up in your bed was being on the train with the prince, it probably means that you had been picked up by someone and brought to your room delicately enough to not be roused. You don’t know how you feel about that quite yet. Not disgusted, no, you don’t feel repulsed by the idea of his hands on you…. Which, in itself, is a new thought that you aren’t sure how to process.

When you leave your room, a familiar breakfast is laid out on the table. Human food, you think, looking over the spread as a pinch of hunger finally squeezes your stomach. You barely manage to thank the maid before you inhale it all, a dull throb in the front of your head reminiscent of a hangover. Whatever that demon doctor gave you yesterday left you feeling like you are starving.

“Blessings, ma’am,” the maid says, handing you a mug of something piping hot. “The _keias’_ assistant asked me to inform you that your servant is being put under surveillance and repairs.”

“Oh,” you say, a small ripple of relief running through your body. Also apprehension, that’s there, too, because you aren’t sure if what you have been doing is Starward Matchmaker’s Approved™. Issues might arise. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Of course, my lady.”

You bite down, ignoring the shiver running down your spine at the maid’s words. _My lady,_ she said like you were almost royalty. It feels strange, yes, but this time you think that the maid really believes what she says, rather than spitting out empty promises on the prince’s behalf. “I… I think after breakfast, I’ll just go back to my room and rest.”

“A wise choice, ma’am,” the maid responds, beginning the tedious process of washing dishes.

“I don’t want to be disturbed,” you add, shoveling something else into your mouth.

“Of course, ma’am.”

You finish the food, placing the dishes in the sink and rinsing them because you aren’t a fucking animal, and head back to your room. The lock is thick, you can hear it click as you turn the nob, but you don’t trust it. It’s an illusion of privacy, if someone wanted in your room, all they would have to do is either get one of those old fashioned keys or electronically request permission from someone with access. Easy. But still, you think that the drow maid respects your privacy enough not to come barging in when you’re worming your way through the ducts.

_Because,_ you think, pushing the bookshelf back underneath the metal grate, _any control freak would at the very least have some kind of way to monitor all entrances and exits, these bad boys included._ Besides the sensor, you mean, quickly disabling it with a flick of your finger against the tablet. Anyone with common sense wouldn’t immediately assume that their charge has somehow hacked their way into their boss’ primary system.

It’s not that tight of a space for you, probably because drows are just a tad bit larger than the average humans, so it makes sense that you’re able to get around without feeling the oppressive feeling of being trapped by metal on all sides. For today, you think that you’re going to investigate that room with that matching serial number, the one on the lower floor, and for that, you will need to find a kind of maintenance tube, preferably one with a ladder. Despite all your other adventures in the atmo ducts from before, the metal in this one is warm. It isn’t distressing or anything; it’s just an odd, so you march on, pausing every so often to look over the map on your tablet. After a little while of floundering around in the breezy tunnel, you find a four-way junction, well, six-way, technically, since _up_ and _down_ are also options.

You wriggle your body around, sliding down feet first, going as slow as you can manage until your foot hits an indent in the metal. It probably isn’t smart to rush downward, but you do, hand over hand, moving downwards as quickly as you would risk. Falling and breaking something is going to be the least of your worries, honestly, because being found in an area where you aren’t supposed to be is high on that _getting in trouble_ list that will not end nicely for you, shattered limbs or not.

It’s difficult trying to find the room without any of the numbers painted on the inside of the walls sucks, because you have to keep careful track of how many grates you’ve passed. Plus, the fact that might not even matter because different suites might have a different number of rooms and, therefore, a wonky set air filters. Still, though, you keep looking down at the numbers on the map, and comparing it to the numbers you’ve passed, and keep going. There- there! Just up ahead, you mentally calculate everything once more, then stop to peek into the room.

At first, it’s a bit difficult to make everything out, but there is definitely someone in there. Someone large, with eight, spindly legs, leaning over a tall desk piled high with tablets, quarry-stone paperwork, and royal stamps. You fidget, trying to find a more comfortable way to spy on your number neighbor without your tablet digging into your thigh. After a moment of absolutely silent struggling, you realize that there is something very much wrong with your friend down there. Namely that they aren’t working anymore, they’re staring right through the grate, head cocked, eyes narrow, and you finally get a good look at their- his face.

Okay, there are two ways this can go about. You can scurry back through the dark like a coward, then deal with the consequences of unwanted questions and tighter security measures, or you can take this situation by the throat and throttle it. Calmly, you kick the grate open, then wriggle your body through the opening, plopping down on your feet and trying to hide the fact that your super cool landing hurt a lot more than you had initially expected it to. But no doubt, it probably looked real wicked.

“Hey, how’s it going?” You ask a very confused prince.

“What were you doing up there?”

“Having a look around the palace?” You say, trying to stick to as much truth as possible.

“You know- you could have asked Elias for a tour.”

“I could have,” you say, thinking very quickly on your feet, “but I didn’t want to bother him.”

“It’s his job to be bothered.”

“Maybe so, but I wanted to bother you directly rather than bother someone else to bother you.”

You figured that admitting- truthfully, unfortunately- that you wanted to see him would at least swing the situation in your favor, and it appears that you are correct. He no longer looks like he’s worried about whether or not you were planning on ambushing him while he was working to take his, uh, stone figurines or something, but you’re definitely not out of the woods quite yet.

“How did you find where I was?” He asks.

Ugh, truth time now. Say goodbye to a loophole that’s undoubtedly going to be fixed in no time. “Maintenance map,” you say, turning your tablet’s screen around and showing him. “I was wondering why my number didn’t match everyone else’s on my floor. Guess I know the answer now.”

He lets out a huff of breath, one that isn’t quite disappointed, but also wouldn’t be labeled as _positively thrilled._ “I see. And if it wasn’t me who caught you? What if it was someone less… accepting of your species?”

“If it were, I wouldn’t have made such an astounding entrance, babe,” you say, hopping on the smooth petrified wood of his desk, “I’d’ve scurried off into the dark like a phantom.”

“And you would have been reported,” he says, less convincingly than he was a moment ago. “The whole situation would have been difficult to cover up.”

“Sorry,” you finally give in, “I didn’t know that I was risking you as well as me; otherwise, I wouldn’t have tried anything.”

He remains silent for a moment, you see him mulling over whatever you had said over in his mind, mouth slightly pursed in thought. After a hot, thunderously quiet minute while you await his verdict, your palms start to sweat from stress. You _have_ been pushing his boundaries, you realize, that can’t end well. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone this far, you think, picking at the ends of your nails, so you don’t begin panicking.

“I have something for you,” he says suddenly, and you almost jump out of your skin.

“Oh- um, what is it?” You ask, swallowing thickly, trying to destress yourself before your entire body freezes up and you have a panic attack.

“The human protocol would be not to _ruin_ the surprise, wouldn’t it?” The prince says breezily, opening one of the drawers in his desk and pulling out an ornately decorated box. “What you told me yesterday while you were, er, rather intoxicated made me realize that this whole situation is rather unfair for you, especially given the amount of trust you would have to exhibit just to cross the border into my people’s territory.”

You can barely remember anything from the night before, just a hazy jumble of colors and voices… and that creature, the one with such a death toll on their hands that there’s order for all ship captains, civilian included, to shoot them on sight. Still, you must have said something for the prince to suddenly be so gentle with you all of a sudden. You accept the gift he holds out, running your fingers over the stone of the box, admiring the golden engravings across the top. Slowly, unsurely, you open it, finding a wickedly long, devastatingly sharp blade lying in a bed of velvet-like material, the hilt intricately shaped to look like a single, golden serpent.

“It’s a _thiamas,”_ he quickly explains, “They were only made during the territorial wars, but the last skirmishes ended centuries ago. Now they collect dust as objects of decoration… but I thought you might appreciate learning to use one.”

“Territorial wars,” you echo, wrapping your fingers around the hilt, “so… they were used against driders?”

“Yes. I would have to train you to use it, of course, and it would be no small task, but you should at least have something to protect yourself with whe- if you decide to stay.”

You look at the knife, at the imperfect curves and bumps in the blade, the gleam of the tip in the low light, how deathly black the crystal looks in your hand. Out of all the gifts you’ve ever received, you’ll be honest, the weapons have always been the best. Tools for you to use as you will, for better or for worse. You don’t expect this to be any different.

“You’re smiling,” the prince observes, “you like it?”

“Yes,” you admit quietly, giving him a little nod.

“Perhaps, since you aren’t busy, we should start training now?”

“Yeah, one sec,” you say, placing the knife back in its case and setting the tablet beside it. “Hold still.”

“Should I be nervous?”

“Depends,” you arch your eyebrows, placing your hands onto his shoulders. “Maybe you should be.”

Then you pull him down, just a bit, enough for you to brush your mouth against his while balancing on the very tips of your toes. It has the desired effect, throwing the prince off whatever rhythm he had been on, his entire body going impossibly still against your mouth. When you part from him, it’s a quick, jerking movement. A soft, huff of breath escapes your lips as you look at his reaction, your heart beating much faster than should be considered healthy.

“That was a kiss,” he says, slowly, as if running through the logic of the action in his head.

“Yes.”

“It’s a sign of affection.”

“Yup.” Is he flustered?

“And… it is often used as a gesture of attraction.” He regards you once more, running his tongue over his bottom lip almost too quickly for your eye to catch.

“So it is,” you say, crossing your arms across your chest.

The very corner of his mouth twitches upward, just slight enough to be easily mistaken for literally anything but a smile. “I have a private training room that is reserved for my use only, we won’t be interrupted.”

You pick up the knife again, feeling the weight of it against your fingertips. “Lead the way.”

It’s a large room, better lit than his office, with sturdy mats covering the unforgiving stone floor. The stone itself isn’t what you would call cold, far from it, actually, but the mats must have some kind of cooling gel or whatever because they feel significantly less hot than everything else. The space is another thing, though, because it’s basically a warehouse. The ceiling towers over you like a cathedral’s, and you’re pretty sure that you’ll hear an echo if you shout. You suppose that driders do need a ridiculous amount of space to train, especially since they can jump a good amount higher than they are tall. _It’s actually not bad to train on,_ you think, stretching your legs out, it’s better than that hellhole Clementine had you in, anyway.

“You can’t be afraid to get close,” the prince instructs, “the one flaw about fighting with a knife is that distance will not be your friend. But since you are so short-”

“Not short,” you can’t help but interrupt.

“My apologies,” he says, “I was under the assumption you’ve looked in the mirror recently.”

It takes you a hot minute to realize that the prince… is _teasing_ you? You look at him, aghast, and then say, “I am perfectly _not_ short where I come from.”

“Not being the shortest person in a species full of short people does not make you tall.”

You place your hands on your hips. “Okay, Mr. Tally McTallface from Tall People Land, how am I supposed to make up for the height difference?”

“You’re going to have to climb up me, whatever means necessary. Give it a try.”

Challenge accepted. You look over his body again, all angles, barely any softness. The joints of his many legs might offer you a decent foothold, but you’re going to have to use something else to haul yourself up. After pondering for a bit, your eyes zero in on the flaps of his clothing, open, begging for a small pair of human hands to grab on. So you give it a try, jumping up, grabbing the open neckline of his robe, and settling your foot up on the flattest bit of his leg, and press the dagger up against his throat.

“A fine start,” he says, clearly unconcerned with the weapon digging into his skin, “but that’s not where you want to aim.”

You slide back down, landing rather gracefully on your feet. “Where should I, then?”

“Here,” the prince places a hand on the very center of his chest, “you’ll manage to hit something vital if you aim here. This is a spot where two bones sit, fused together with collagen. The _thiamas_ is sharp enough and strong enough to pierce through with little effort.”

So you try again, offering no words of warning as you snap into action, repeating your climb but sticking the point right where the prince had been pointing, mere seconds before.

“Better,” he allows, “though you may want to move a bit quicker. Anyone with the bare minimum of combat skills could see your movements before you even make them. Again.”

_Finish him,_ a voice inside you hisses as you jump back down to the ground. _So close, so close. Take his heart and leave him bleeding._ You try a different approach, this time, leaping as high off the ground as you can manage, bracing your foot right where his hip ends and one of his legs begin, then gripping his shoulder to keep from falling back down. The tip of the dagger slices at his clothing with barely any force, you immediately yank it away in fear of nicking him.

“Again.”

He’s a good teacher, much better than Clementine or the matchmaker rep. You don’t think either would be particularly pleased to hear your observation, but it’s definitely true. While he does believe that skill takes practice, he isn’t nearly as unbearably harsh as the seasoned army vet put in charge of your brief combat training, nor is he fond of physical punishment for your ‘outrageous’ behavior. It’s… actually kind of nice, you realize, because a few hours fly by without you even noticing where the time was going.

Your focus isn’t on avoiding any untempered wack with a cane or an ungodly shock of electricity; it’s on how the prince’s skin feels against yours when you pull yourself up to his eye level, knife in hand. It’s on how his eyes seem to glitter in the low light when you manage to throw him only marginally off guard and nick just the smallest needlepoint of skin. As though you aren’t merely meeting the lowest expectations he’s set for you to accomplish, but like he’s- like he’s proud of what you are managing to do with the time you have had so far.

The idea of someone being proud of you… god, you don’t want to think about that right now. It’s doing something to your insides, making everything all melty, and your eyes begin stinging with something. Sweat, probably.

“Lunch?” He asks, letting you drop back down onto the mat, his hand on yours to slow your fall. “You seem hungry.”

“I feel hungry.” Your body is doing that thing where it vibrates due to a drop in blood sugar, which is basically its way of telling you to _shovel food into mouth now please._ “But I’m trying to acclimate to the two meal per day schedule you guys have here.”

“Nonsense,” he says briskly, “you shouldn’t starve yourself. I’ll order your maid to bring up some food while you clean yourself up. Unless, of course, you would rather return to your suite for the day?”

Do… do you want to go back to your room? Not really, especially with the matchmaker rep’s shell rotting wherever his assistant sent it. You do need to talk with the prince about what’s supposed to be done with that thing, but you had forgotten entirely about her just now. Plus, food does sound super-duper at the moment, and since you don’t think you can do much until you replenish all fuel gone with the training session, it’s pretty darn easy to decide that you would very much prefer to remain in the prince’s quarters for as long as he’d have you. If someone dares question your judgment… it was all for reconnaissance.

“If your bathtub is better than mine,” you threaten, waggling your fingers, “I warn you, I will only bathe there from now on.”

He seems amused. “I’ll allow you to judge the difference, then.”

The prince’s bathtub isn’t just better than yours, it’s _much_ better. Like, you might have been just a tad bit put off by the luxury of your own apartment, but _holy motherfuck,_ you don’t even know what to do with yourself when you step foot into his bathroom. Maybe wash your hands? Apologize to the polished marble for even looking at it? The bathtub is precisely the size you’d thought it would be, ridiculously large, big enough to fit the prince’s towering frame and _then some._ To you, it’s essentially a swimming pool, maybe one big enough to do some laps in, and your immediate thought at finally gauging its size was: _bubble bath + big tub = bubble mountain._

“Is it better than yours?”

You barely manage to croak out a word in affirmation.

“I’ll leave you then. There should be something in my closet you can wear temporarily, feel free to look around.”

_Bubble mountain bubble mountain bubble mountain bubble mountain._ “Yeah, thanks.”

“Do you need help with anything?”

“Um,” you take in a shaking breath, “if you could turn on the water while I look for something to change into, yeah. I don’t know how to work the controls.”

“Of course.”

You make your way to the closet, and that almost feels like stumbling into some kind of otherworldly dimension. It’s… large, that’s for sure, and filled from wall to wall with clothing, jewels, weapons, and even armor, but you aren’t confident what exactly you can fit into without swimming in fabric. You pull open a drawer, rifling through different robes and tunics, until you find something that you can at least tighten around your waist so it doesn’t slip off your body like a silken tube.

When you emerge from his closet, the tub is only about marginally full, despite the water from the spout gushing like a goddamn waterfall. It’s… odd, you guess, seeing water used too liberally without any thoughts of conservation, but that isn’t needed here like it is up in space. Thousands of rivers run through the stone and metal, so it’s not like the prince is just showing off how much water he can afford to waste, either. It’s just a thing that’s normal.

You show him what you picked as if you expected him to be at all particular about the clothing you borrow. He only offers a nod, letting his eyebrows arch, and then saying, “I’ll leave, then, come out whenever you feel ready.”

“Right,” you say, reaching down and feeling the water’s temperature. Perfect. Huh. “Will do.”

The water feels glorious against the muscles you hadn’t even realized are sore until this exact moment. Everything melts down into a puddle of warmth, and after scrubbing some soap over your sweaty bits, you lean back and let yourself float. It’s almost like being adrift in space, in an endless void, surrounded by a vast nothingness that makes you feel like a blip in the eternity of the universe. There isn’t anything here to worry about, the matchmaker rep, the admiral, Clementine… even the prince fades away, bleeding out into the water. You take a long, deep breath, closing your eyes for just a moment, and pretend that you’re out doing a run for a local smuggler. Something external is damaged, so you just popped out of your ship to do a quick repair. Everything is fine. Everything is _safe._

But it doesn’t last. The water begins to run cold, which you usually wouldn’t mind, except now you’re reminded that you’re here, grounded, and on a mission. The crushing feeling returns, the stress resuming to rest around your body like a smothering blanket. You don’t cry, though, because tears help no one, but you do let out a single, whimpering breath just to get a portion of it out of your system. _Get up, get out,_ you tell yourself, hauling your soaking body out of the tub and onto the slick floor. Dressing isn’t as bad as your brain psyched it up to be since your arms are a tad sore, and you manage to wrap it around yourself enough to the point where, while not particularly attractive, serves its function as a temporary outfit.

You look at yourself in the mirror, taking a deep breath.

_Don’t forget to smile,_ the matchmaker’s voice echoes in your ears.

You leave the solitary safety of the bathroom.


	7. Fun Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 2020 bitches

You exit the bathroom, hair still damp, and swing around to where the prince is, his back turned to you, his telecom pressed up against his ear, entire body tense. Thinking that the uneasy conversation is just probably some political strife and you shouldn’t bother him about it, you take a moment to look over the sheer size of his bed. Sure, while his torso bit is about the same size as a rather large human male, the rest of his body _does_ need a lot of space to stretch out and relax, which is probably why his mattress is easily the size of some of the apartments you’ve stayed in before.

“How did you let this happen?” You hear him say as you climb on to the silken sheets. The actual bed isn’t all that high, it’s about average, so you don’t struggle to get on there. “Are there any leads?”

Laying your entire body out flat against the mattress, you take a moment to stare up at the ornately decorated ceiling. Unlike your suite, gilded with glittering metals, the stone of the walls and ceiling are whorled with different deposits of minerals, grays, blues, and even dulled violets seep and curve through the surfaces. Then there are all the carvings, worn with time, but still evident enough that you can immediately pick up on the overarching pattern that converges on a single, circular centerpiece in the middle of the ceiling.

“You’re very, _very_ lucky that she is with me right now.” The dangerous edge of the prince’s voice gives you a jolt, and you sit up. “I don’t care for excuses, Elias. I care about the results.”

“What’s going on?” You ask, and he twists around to give you a look of… relief? He holds his hand up, requesting for one moment away from your attention, and then he frowns.

“Find who did it, and leave them _alive_ for me to deal with.” The threat in his voice is clear, and it sends icy shivers down your arms. You’ ve- you’ve never seen him like this, so enraged that he looks like he’s _shaking,_ as though he’s only three slights away from going on a bloody rampage. His main seeing eyes narrow as whoever is on the receiving end offers up some empty reassurances, but he doesn’t respond before hanging up.

Finally, you’re under his full attention, which doesn’t make you feel any better. There’s a sick pit at the bottom of your stomach because you _know_ something has happened, something big, but you don’t grasp what. Did they find something incriminating? Has the maid gone through your things? No, no, you don’t think you would still be standing if that was the case, though can you really be sure? Maybe, just maybe, it’s something as simple as someone reporting that you’re missing.

He lets out a long sigh, and you’re almost screaming for him to just _tell you,_ because you’re about to crack under the pressure. Finally, he shakes his head. “Someone broke into your suite.”

Which is usually a minor thing to you, it happens all the time whenever you stayed in the seedier parts of the galaxy. _But,_ , but definitely _not_ now that there are things in your room which can incriminate you in something nasty. “What happened? What was stolen?”

He doesn’t answer, and you feel like puking. “I wouldn’t know, you’ll have to do a full inventory of your things.”

There’s something else, something he’s not telling you. You’re about to fucking explode, but somehow, impossibly, you manage to keep your voice calm enough to say, “Aksanos, just tell me how bad it is. Be honest.”

“Your security detail is dead.”

You sit back, mulling over his claim. One, you didn’t even _realize_ you had a security detail, which was awfully stupid of you because _of course you would,_ and two, you are very aware of just how much danger you are, just as the matchmaker rep had warned.

“Someone- or a group of someones, most likely political opposition to my family’s caste, broke into your suite, murdered your guards, and were most likely looking to kill you as well. Or, at the very least, take you hostage.” The way he says it, his voice _almost_ cracks during the last sentence, you suddenly realize that you might actually mean something to him.

You take a deep breath. “What about the servant? Semele?”

He looks at you strangely, then away at the ceiling, admitting in a low, defeated voice, “Semele Leos was one of your guards.”

You think of her motherly, tender eyes, the way she smiled when you asked to be of any help to her tasks. And you think of the callousness of which your last words to her were, _I don’t want to be disturbed._ That was that, no thanks, no gratitude for all the effort she put into keeping your space liveable. Oh god, she wasn’t even a maid, was she? It must have been torturous to babysit someone who didn’t even bother to try to clean up after herself. But also, there’s something else, some other realization clamoring in the back of your head, something so obvious you don’t know why you hadn’t seen it before. “She wasn’t _just_ a guard, was she?”

The prince clears his throat. “No, she wasn’t. Elias thought it would be… prudent, to keep an eye on you.”

“But you agreed.” It wasn’t an accusation, you just don’t feel like allowing him to deflect any guilt.

“I did.” At least he admits it easily enough. “There was cause for concern, in case your position on the match had been… compromised.”

“Well, it wasn’t unwarranted.” This will be the closest you’ve ever admitted to the real reason that you’re here, but you don’t elaborate, not even when the prince gives you one of his careful, questioning stares. In fact, you’re satisfied to let the room slip away into silence, if only for a minute because you need the time to quietly grieve for a life that didn’t have to die. Not for, at least, you’re quite frankly _sick_ of how people seem to drop dead around you. Carefully, to keep the tears from your eyes, you take in a deep, cleansing breath, and let it all out. “So, what now?”

“Given the fact that the traitors seem to have had an informed advantage over your security measure, and perhaps even your movements, I believe something drastic must be done to ensure your safety. What did you tell your guard when you went crawling about in the vents?”

You feel your throat tighten. “That I was going to lie down for a rest.”

He nods as if he suspected as much. “It is quite possible your room was somehow bugged by this traitor faction. Given the fact that I don’t know which of my underling staff to trust, except perhaps for the ones that are already dead, then I’m afraid that it would be rather unwise for you to have a suite of your own.”

Well, correct, and you also don’t want to tell him that your matchmaker rep was also fully programmed in all forms of defense, making her probably be the biggest adversary to overcome. Funny coincidence on how her programming was hacked and had to be fully shut down for everyone’s safety, hm? “Um, what do you suggest, then?”

“That you stay in here with me.”

It’s a simple enough solution, but you’re still taken aback by the ease that he says it. Oh, right, _just share a room, why hadn’t you thought of it?_ There’s an odd twinge in your chest, one that you’re a little too bit receptive to, and you have to calm the resulting nerves that seem to be steadily building up in your stomach. _Yeah, just share a room._

“You’re tense,” the prince notices quickly, “was the suggestion unbecoming of me? If so, I apologize.”

“It’s probably a smart thing to do,” you say, slowly.

“And yet?”

“Well, the thing is,” you let out a breath, “I know that you mean the best when you say it, but I’m not really the best roommate. You’re not just going to get me when my hair is nice, or when I’ve had a couple of hours to wake up and get my shi- er, _stuff_ together, you’re going to get me when I snore, or when I have to use the bathroom at some ungodly hour of the night and trip over just about everything on my way there, or how absolutely _obnoxious_ I get when I’m tired, and just a bunch of other things that I’m sure you’re not going to be so fond of. We’re still kind of strangers.” _Also, there’s only one bed._ Not sure how you’re going to handle that one quite yet.

You’re not sure if the best or worst part is that he _hears_ you, clearly running over your immediate offer of cons to the idea in his head, hair falling over his shoulder as he looks to the side while he thinks. Finally, after just a moment of reflection, he says, “I still don’t understand why you find the idea unsavory.”

“What?” You blink. “I just - I just was not really prepared to be in such a… a domestic situation so quickly. But I can be, I guess since it does seem like the best outcome. I’m just letting you know that I should come with a warning label.”

“I’m sure all individuals can agree that they come with a unique set of issues, myself included.” The prince offers you what you _think_ is a hesitant smile, but he could just be moving his mouth weird. “You aren’t repulsive.”

“Oh, thanks.” You say, knowing that he probably doesn’t mean it the way he said it. “You aren’t repulsive, either. Just… I want to be aware of these things, alright? I mean it, too, I don’t like being kept in the dark about anything. Let me know if I’m in danger, and from where it might be coming, I’ll do a better job at keeping myself out of it if I know what’s happening.”

It doesn’t take him much more persuading to agree. “I do believe that you would be a greater asset than hindrance if your quaint atmosphere duct maneuvers have shown, but you must at least be willing to do the same for me. No more escapades without my knowledge, hm?”

“That’s fair.” You agree, reaching your hand out. When the prince doesn’t do anything, you take one of his long-fingered hands in your own and shake it firmly. “That’s the human way of coming to an agreement.”

“I see,” he says, and yes, you think he’s actually smiling now. “That’s an interesting way of showing it.”

“How do the people here do it?”

“Oh,” he waves his hand, “we don’t have any gestures or symbols beyond that of piety and respect. We hold each other to our word, or there will be bloodshed. There are traditional punishments for those who go back on their promises, usually involving plucking out a limb or two.”

“Cool.” You say, deciding never to double-cross anyone, ever, then and there. “Would love to talk more about the ceremonies involving dismemberment, but I just remembered how hungry I am. Is there anything we can do about food, or am I stuck being starved until everything gets sorted out?”

That snaps the prince out of whatever trance he had been in briefly. “Of course, allow me a moment to order something up. Please, how do the humans say it… ‘make yourself at home,’ while I do so.”

While the prince goes back to speaking on his telecom device, you’re back to laying out against the covers of his bed, staring right back up at the ceiling. And then the sick feeling quickly returns, seeping through your veins like a stab of poison, eating at your heartbeat until it rockets around your chest like an unstable core. Honestly, you’d think that you could take a close call like that in stride, you’ve done so before, but it’s a reminder of just how open you are in this unfamiliar environment. Because _yes,_ you’ve had close calls. Sometimes ever closer than this one!

But you’ve always seen them coming.

You’ve seen the glint of metal in someone’s pocket. You’ve smelled the burning acid of lighter fluid. You’ve noticed a person’s shifting glance or a nervous lip bite, or the tense way a double-crosser might turn their eyes, looking for help. But you didn’t even have an inkling that a bullet was heading for your forehead this time. And maybe you would have heard the struggle of a trained guard outside your bedroom door, though more likely, you wouldn’t have, and you would have ended up as a corpse. The thought of being taken alive doesn’t even cross your mind, though, because at least then you have the street smarts to escape and evade capture. Death, that’s what you’re afraid of. Once your brains are splashed out on the wall, there’s no running from that.

You swallow thickly as the prince asks you what you feel like eating. Typically, you might shrug and offer a halfhearted response, but you know that something left for interpretation might get you a bowl of writhing bugs. “Remember that dinner we had when I first arrived?”

“Of course, anything else?”

“I’m good, thanks.” The brief conversation snapped you out of that depressive spiral, so you wait, not so patiently, for the prince to finish ordering your food, and then you pounce on him. “I’d like to hear more about you, please.”

“What do you wish to know?”

He had a full profile on the official matchmaker site, there was a complete list of hobbies and things he might do for enjoyment, but you didn’t know what any of it was. Now’s the time to figure it out, though, before you go insane with guilt. “What do you do for fun?”

In a couple of steps, his spindly body is back over to the foot of the bed, where you lie. “Before I answer that, humor me for a moment.”

You look up, trying to pull yourself back to the moment, to reality. “Yeah?”

“Move over to the side, just a bit, then up to the top.”

Dubiously, you do as he says, scooting your body until you are in the very corner of the mattress. “Like this?”

Without answering, he slides his entire body up onto the sheets, large abdomen able to somehow dwarf the gigantic bed itself. Yet above all else, he somehow manages to line his head and torso up to yours, almost making it seem as though the two of you are about the same size, so long as you don’t look down at the massive amount of long, thin legs, that is. Still, the gesture doesn’t escape you, and your chest begins to fill with something other than anxiety.

“During childhood, we’re expected to be able to make a show of superiority and strength, so the sport of wrestling is highly encouraged. Youths are expected to compete against each other, though the disgrace of losing isn’t carried outside the ring. Adulthood, though, brings many different expectations to those who compete. Winning against a weaker opponent brings little respect; however, managing to wrangle a much _stronger_ opponent does plenty of honor to their status.”

“Kind of like the Galaxy Wrestling Entertainment?” You ask, though you haven’t heard of driders or drows competing.

“None of the matches are televised,” Aksanos says, “it is entirely a private matter between the families and judges. The outcomes may sometimes be publicized, though the details are not given beyond the winner and loser.”

“So no one knows if it’s a close win or not,” you clarify.

“Correct, people only know the most basic outcome.”

“That’s-” _awful,_ you don’t say, _so much pressure to put on someone,_ “an interesting way of doing things.”

“Perhaps,” he responds, “but that is how we have done it for generations. Though once most driders have fought each other, and really, truly wish to give a show of strength, they must wrestle the dragons of the deep.”

It takes you a minute to fully process what you’ve just heard. “I’m sorry- you’re expected to _wrestle_ a _dragon?”_

“I’ve done it many times,” he says, as though that somehow puts your mind at ease. “It might be difficult, yes, but it sometimes is the only way to earn respect. Anyone who does not partake in a show of strength, wrestling or not, are seen as weak, or unworthy of their stations. I must do every little thing to earn what I can.”

You’re still stuck on the fact that he’s _fought dragons_ that you almost don’t notice when he reaches over, tucking stray string of drying hair behind your ear.

“Do not fret,” he says, “for I am strong and have always emerged victorious.”

“Everyone’s victorious until they aren’t,” you respond dully, tucking your hand underneath your chin.

“Perhaps that is true,” he allows, “but you have naught to worry about.”

You’re tempted to argue further, but there is a brisk beeping in the direction of the door, and you dully remember that he had ordered food for you, not so long ago. Before he can even think of getting up, you do so first, reaching over to where he placed your _thiamas,_ braced for attack. Adrenaline has yet to do your body the pleasure of dissipating, so you’re just as ready to rip someone’s face off now as you were a few minutes ago, despite the… _relief_ of talking to the prince about his dragon wrestling escapades.

He doesn’t seem to find your tense reaction strange, if anything, he seems less worried than he was just a few minutes ago. It takes him a good minute to haul his behemoth body out of bed, but once he is on his feet, his movements are swift and graceful. The two of you exit his bedroom, the same, intricate carvings engraved into the walls, the low lamps almost flickering like candlelight. You’re struck by the thought of how this must of been what it was like for the first driders that went underground, that is, if the stories of the legend were to be true. They were only able to see very faintly, even with the dim, warm glow of fire before they were blessed by their mother goddess with the Night Sight. It’s a strange feeling, but you’re also hit with a brief memory from when you were still at the mining colonies, stringing up little fairy lights when you were younger, making a fort of light, flat stones.

The door opens when he swipes the control panel to the side, revealing two very nervous drow, pushing a tray full of food into the room. Both of them look like they would quite enjoy being anywhere but here, and though you aren’t really used to gauging the tones of their skin, yet, one seems a little paler than the usual pallet. They work on setting the small table on the side of the room, setting the table with dishes, silverware, the works, then laying out the platters in the center. You watch them operate, see their worry, their terror, and only briefly wonder what they’re so afraid of before glancing over at the prince’s face.

Oh, that’s probably why.

He’s staring them down, head tilted slightly to the side, his mouth no longer in the gentle curve of an almost-smile. The way he stands is different, too, his legs stretched out longer, his shoulders broad, and arms crossed tightly over his chest. Even though he’s significantly taller than you, he never made it _seem_ that way, or at least, he never looked down on you with such a contemptuous gaze of bitter distaste. In fact, a shiver goes down your spine when you see him like that, even though you know you aren’t the recipient of such feelings.

One everything is settled, the drow make a move for the door, but the prince stops them with a firm, _”wait.”_

They both freeze.

“Come here,” he orders, gesturing to the food. “Doesn’t it look remarkably delicious? I think that the both of you should have the honor of _trying some_ before you leave.”

The drows don’t speak in response, only hesitantly approaching the table they had tried to leave. A part of you sees where this is going, the other part wants to fade away in the shadows. You’ve never seen the prince act so much as _firm_ before, let alone _murderous,_ and despite his reputation, you had begun to think that perhaps it was all hyperbole. Now, maybe you can bear witness to how it probably wasn’t.

“Go on,” the prince says, his voice condescendingly harsh, _”eat the food.”_

One of them does, reaching over and pulling something off one of the platters, popping it into their mouth. The second one follows suit, taking something else, and eating it. Mouths either chew quickly or not at all, one of them picking to swallow the bite whole, probably so they could leave faster. But the prince doesn’t offer them the dignity of being dismissed, instead, he watches their reactions, the room eerily silent. If there was a clock, you might be able to time the seconds, though instead, you watch the way they both shake, hands jittering, shoulders tense, eyes either darting too fast or merely fixated at one place on the floor.

Nothing happens. And still a few minutes later, nothing more. The prince finally waves his hand in a gesture of dismissal, not even bothering to tell them that they are excused. They both catch the drift, though, bowing deeply and then rushing out of the room as quickly as they can without also running, their movements smooth and fluid. You watch them leave, still in shock from the viciousness emanating from the prince’s body posture, then suddenly remember your manners.

“Thank you!” You call after them just as the door shuts.

“You should not do that,” the prince says, voice still echoing the tone he used on his servants.

“I shouldn’t be polite?” You clarify, walking over to the table and looking over what they brought. There’s certainly plenty of stuff for you to sample, not just the things you requested.

“Politeness differs between cultures,” the prince elaborates, the tight, regal words slowly dissipating as he slips out from _conqueror_ and back to _hesitant lover._ “What you see as kindness is considered a weakness here. People might try to take advantage of that.”

“Don’t mistake my kindness for stupidity.” You spear something you don’t recognize with a two-pronged fork, “I’m being _nice,_ I wasn’t born yesterday.”

It takes him a moment to process your words, probably because he hasn’t heard that saying before. “Still, I think that you should at least consider stopping thanking the servants every time they do something for you. It will be seen as unsightly.”

“Or, the alternative,” you suggest, “your servants, so shocked at someone being nice to them, will now be more likely to do what I saw because I, a kind person, asked it of them.”

“They should do as you ask because of your _station,_ not because you’re ‘nice.’"

“Care to make a bet?”

“This is a bet that you are going to lose.” The prince says.

You settle down on the chair and arch your eyebrows. “Did they tell you that I’m a gambler?” At the sharp, shake of his head, you wonder if the matchmakers left that part out of the report or if you failed to mention it on the form. “The thing is, I’m a _good_ gambler because I don’t throw money in unless I know that I’m going to win. The fact that I’m willing to even mention it should warn you off.”

“What do I get if I win?” He asks, mildly bemused by your words.

“Well,” you say, “it has to be something that you want, and it has to be something I can give. And the other way around for _when_ I win.”

“I’ll have to think the terms over. How will I know if you win?”

“If I need someone to do something, and they do it, not because they must, but because they want to.”

The prince settles in his section of the table, reaching over and grasping one of the delicacies laid out. “And how will we know which of us is victorious?”

You shrug because his end of the deal seems a lot more challenging to call. “I guess it’s more subjective, but my point still stands. If I win, I want a tour of the solar system, _in person,_ on a spaceship. And I want to pilot it.”

He cocks his head, clearly thinking it over. “I suppose that would be acceptable. You might have to give me some time to think over what I might want from you, if that is somehow in line with the rules of this little game.”

“Usually not, but I’m fine with bending them a bit for you.” You twirl your fork around in the bowl. “Just let me know sometime, I guess.”

And then you begin eating, trying to take your mind off how you’re going to be sharing the spectacularly large bed soon enough.


	8. Even MORE Fun Surprise

“There will be some changes to your schedule. And you will be assigned a food taster, in case of poison. A full security detail will have to accompany you should you need to visit a public level, for whatever reason.”

You feel like barfing again as Elias recites a rather long, very detailed list about how your seriously your safety is going to be taken. Still, though, you sit on the provided chair, arms on the prince’s desk, as the assistant continues. Everything seems... too dark, suddenly, a dull, throbbing pain beginning to pinch on the inside of your skull. You know that breathing a word of complaint might put you on that psychopath’s medical table again, so you bear it, silently, looking over the provided datapad with feigned interest.

“Is this to your satisfaction, your highness?”

You realize that Elias is speaking to _you,_ not the prince, so you swallow and offer up a nod. “Yeah, it looks good to me.”

He then turns to the prince, offering the same treatment. “Does this satisfy you, your grace?”

“I will look over it in more detail later,” the prince says calmly, “and you will reevaluate some of the steps.”

“Of course, sire.” Elias, at least, looks mildly relieved that he’s not about to end up on the platter in the dining area, “I will inform the head of security.”

“You are dismissed.” The prince looks back at you as his assistant leaves, arms crossed.

You don’t really know where to go from there, so you decide to take it a couple of steps at a time. All your things are being scanned for any remedial poisons and toxins, so the guns you brought are about to be found. Fun stuff. Oh, and some other… more scandalous things, you know, the stuff that you’ve been using in the absence of a partner. _That’s_ going to be _super_ fun to explain. You’re not quite sure which one is going to be more embarrassing to deal with, the laser technology or the vibrators. It’s a close call. And this is a new sensation, too, because you’ve never been super _shy_ about either of those. In the very small amount of instances where either someone went through your stuff, or you had to send your bag through a security scan, you shrugged off the phallic shapes and dared someone to say something about it.

“Cool,” you say, mostly to yourself, “cool, cool, cool, cool.”

“I understand that this isn’t ideal,” the prince says, “and for that, I apologize.”

“Not your fault,” you say, trying to be understanding but allowing the full implications of this situation set in, “but thanks.”

“Is there anything I can have fetched for you?” The prince squeezes his hands together, his knuckles going a shade paler from his grip. “Books? Projects?”

“I want to take a nap.” The headache is spreading now, and all you would like to do is lay down and forget about existing for a little while.

“Of course, is there anything you’d like to sleep in, or are you fine now?”

“Blankets would be nice,” You say, already partly onto the bed. There aren’t any for you to wrap yourself up in, and you’d like to make yourself into a burrito to sleep.

True to his word, the prince orders some blankets up, and you have your pick of all the different materials the royal laundry has to offer. Large, thin, thick, fluffy, light, heavy. You grab the one that will provide the most comfort and roll yourself up, laying your head down on a pillow and closing your eyes. The sleep, at least, is like a sweet relief against the day’s worries, like a blissful blackout. When you wake, everything pitch dark, you have to blink to realize your eyes aren’t still closed. You also don’t sense an enormous, foreboding weight on the other side of the mattress, either, so you’re alone.

Hesitantly, you step out of the bed, feeling the ground for obstacles, and try to find your way out. Unfortunately, your shin crashes into something rather hard, so a string of curse words are out of your mouth before you can even stop the urge. When you take a second to breathe, you hear the skittering of pointed legs against the stone floor, and the lights turn on to a dim setting, the prince peeking his head through the door.

“You’re up,” he notices.

“What time is it? Already night?” You’re nowhere near the door and had been aiming for it in a slightly adjacent trajectory. Even if you hadn’t run into some sort of decorative statue, you would have then planted face-first into the wall only a moment later.

“It’s morning,” the prince says, “you slept through the rest of the day and through the night.”

“Incredible.” You say, somehow feeling thoroughly exhausted.

“I could turn the lights back off and let you go back to sleep? Oh, and there’s a lantern sensor on the table on your side of the bed, just touch the pad if you need to see.”

“I’m good, I probably need to face the day anyway.” You yawn, scratching your arm.

“Well,” his expression turns a tad hesitant, “your things are here, fully inspected by my security staff.”

_That_ wakes you up as efficiently as getting a bucket of ice water dumped over your head. “Cool, that’s great. I’ll put on some clothes that actually fit me, then.”

“There’s also the matter of…” his voice trails off before he tries starting the sentence again. “Some of your things are considered contraband here.”

“I know.” _Emit an aura of confidence._ “But you know how I like having my safety in my own hands, so the guns stay.”

“That is acceptable, though you are aware that the outer shell of a drider is tough enough to take two or even three shots from your strongest rifle and still be able to fight?”

“Yeah?” You aren’t stupid. “The guns were there before you offered to teach me the fancy knife work.”

“I see.” He hesitates again, and you can _see_ precisely what he wants to ask, but you let him flounder around because you hope that he will just choose not to bring it up. Oh, but no such luck, because he cocks his head and adds, “there is also something else found that I am, well, curious about.”

“Hm?” You ask, arching your eyebrows, hands on your hips.

“Several intriguingly shaped objects that seem to serve no function but to… well…”

A part of you enjoys watching him squirm, despite your own embarrassment. “Oh, did you not get the memo that humans tend to be creatures of sexual nature?”

“I…” he suddenly looks like he regrets bringing the subject up, _“-did,_ but I suppose that I hadn’t realized that it was so... ferocious.”

“Well,” you stand on the tips of your toes to pat him on the shoulder, “I’ll spare you the more lewd details, doesn’t look like you can stomach it at the moment. Where did you say my stuff was?”

“Set against the front door.”

“Neat, thanks.”

It’s clear as day when you open your bags that they’ve been rifled through with great liberty. Still, after going through everything twice, you’re satisfied that all your stuff is still there, so you spin around and let out a muted sigh. “Any place I can put these?”

“My closet would be acceptable,” the prince says, working on something at his desk. His face seems… darker? More saturated? You wonder… could he be flushed? Is this what a flustered drider looks like?

You try not to laugh too loudly as you go to put your things away, organizing what you have among the prince’s clothes and accessories. Now that you have a moment, you figure you can go through his clothing just as a sort of preliminary investigation of what the prince (or the person who dresses him, at least) thinks is fashionable. Lots and lots of fluttery, light fabrics, robes, and tunics made to be seen by the careful eyes of a predator. You run your fingers over silky and scratchy threads, marveling at the textures, pulling some of the drapery out, so see how it falls back in place.

There aren’t really any sort of shoes, but there are a vast amount of accessories. Jewelry, for one, though you’ve never seen the prince wear anything more than rings and claws, but there are nose rings, earrings, necklaces, crowns, you name it, he has it, in black, silver, and even _white._ Now there’s a color you didn’t think you would see since you left the Starward Matchmaker™ ship. An older instinct inside of you wants to reach out and snatch at the metal and gemstones, and it’s something you have to actively fight against because you’re fingers always want to grab first, ask questions later.

Calmly, you turn around to gather up clothes to get into. By the time you’re changed, there’s already food sitting on the table for you to eat, so you hop right onto the human-sized chair across from the prince, who is already settled in his place. Oh, the spread is downright _beautiful,_ a collection of foods both familiar and not, you’re so stupidly hungry that you go through a whole helping before you even taste anything. No one tells you that on top of being tired all the time from the extra gravity, you also end up being fucking _famished_ because you’re exerting yourself more than usual. Your poor body’s burning calories up the wazoo as it struggles to adjust.

“About the doctor’s appointments,” the prince says, poking at his own food, “there aren’t many doctors with as much intimate knowledge on human anatomy as Doctor Nisesh.”

You look at him, but don’t say anything back.

“There is, however, a drow medical professional willing to become your doctor, if that suits you?”

You offer a nod.

He lets out a breath, as though he was expecting more of an argument, for whatever reason. “Well, I will send word. I’d like for you to have a preliminary exam as soon as possible, today, even, unless you have other plans?”

“Oh, hold on, let me look at my schedule.” You pull out your datapad’s calendar, which is decidedly empty. “Nope, looks like I can squeeze it in.”

“Excellent.” He seems pleased, at least, and you aren’t sure if its because you aren’t putting up a fight or he found your joke amusing. “I hope you will forgive me, but I will be in meetings for most of the day, there are some things I have been putting aside in lieu of, well, your arrival. Elias and another guard will escort you to and from my family’s private clinic.”

“Ooo, a whole clinic just for you and your family? I’m always so used to having to _share_ those medical offices with everyone else in the area who needed them! I feel so darn special already.” Internally, you berate yourself for being just a wee bit too sarcastic, but he doesn’t seem at all bothered by your classy snark. Still, you try to dial it back significantly, even though you feel ridiculously cranky.

True to the prince’s word, Elias shows up a little bit later, his black uniform crisp and sharp in the dim light, shadowed by some kind of similarly uniformed drow, gun strapped to their hip. You’re already dressed, so you shove your datapad in your back pocket, say goodbye to the prince, and follow the assistant out into the halls. This floor’s decorations are significantly more rustic than the one above, like the prince’s room itself, with objects and statues you are sure probably date back a couple hundred or so generations. You’re very careful to keep your hands at your sides, afraid that you might accidentally move too weird and knock a millennia-old artifact onto the floor.

There are keys to the elevators, or, at least, for _this_ level, which you suppose makes sense. It’s the same with stations and the like, the restricted areas kept under a keycode, but surely there has to be some sort of stairwell or tunnel that these people can use in the case of emergency. You would think, anyway. Lolth wasn’t always so technologically advanced, so they must like a tunnel system, maybe even air vents that go straight up to the surface dug when the atmosphere on this hellish planet was still breathable.

“Pardon me for asking, your grace, but your maid reported that you request that you speak to her in a plainer tone.” Elias breaks the ice, surprisingly. You thought that you might have to suffer the ride in stifling propriety.

“You can say ‘my bodyguard,’ it’s ok,” you say, unable to reel the retort in before it left your mouth. “And yes, I did. The constant respect got on my nerves, so I asked to be demoted to just ‘ma’am,’ if the titles are all that necessary.”

“I see,” Elias nods like he understands, “would you appreciate it if I did the same?”

It’s like a breath of fresh air, being spoken to like you’re on the same level, but you approach the offer with great trepidation. After all, this is the _prince’s_ personal assistant, the two of them might be colluding over the little bet you made. “I would, actually, if you don’t mind my, um, lack of formality. I know it bothers some of the staff.”

“My purpose here is to make you feel welcome, so if I must hold back a margin of bureaucratic language, then that is a sacrifice I’m sure the _keias_ will understand.”

“Well, then, that sounds good to me, so long as you don’t get in trouble for it.”

An uncomfortable silence threatens to befall the elevator pod, but you’re saved by the doors opening. Elias exits first, and you get a decent view of the intricate, smooth braids his white hair is done up in. The twists are stiff, the kind that comes with an inordinate amount of product clinging to the strands, though the rest of his hair spill out like a frothing waterfall. The intricate hairstyles, especially from the staff, are just one of the ways everything is different from what you’re used to. With shorter hair comes efficiency, or, at least, the appearance of it, so most people you know have, at the very most, have shoulder-length cuts.

The guard stays behind you, as though watching for any attacks that might dare aim for your back. You aren’t one hundred percent positive, what with the assassination attempt and all, but you don’t really peg the driders as a people who would pull such a disgraceful maneuver, drows, though? You’re not so sure about them. Humanity is known for discriminating against their own on the basis of faked biology, so you aren’t exactly blown away and scandalized by the fact some other species does it as well, it’s just… well, eerie it to actually see it in action. Human slaves rebelled. You would think that the drow are doing the same, only everything nasty about the world is probably carefully shifted away from your view.

You’re on the same floor as the garden, so this must be where all the extra stuff besides living and eating quarters must be, a sort of recreational deck, you guess. Kind of like the space cruiser. The station is close by, and the ride to the clinic was rather peaceful. While you try asking Elias questions about himself, his life, the prince, and the prince’s family, he reacts… very dodgy, and the longest answers he gives are oh so very clearly scripted. You’re not stupid.

“You can just _say_ that you’re not at liberty to talk about those things, it will be less obvious.”

Elias looks over at you again, his face tight with carefully restrained emotion. “I apologize. There are things that I would think would be better coming from the _keias_ directly, rather than from me.”

“Alright.” You hold your hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry for poking at you.”

The rest of the ride continues in silence. You’re almost relieved that you can stand and walk out of the station, a small one, much like the one from the palace, with no other people present. It must be some kind of private platform, which honestly makes sense. The clinic looks familiar, but given the fact you spent the last time you were here in a drugged up like a sick dog, you can’t really say that you’d be able to find your way around. Before you can even look over to Elias for a pointer on which sliding door to enter through, someone wearing a lab coat steps out.

“Ah! My human patient,” an elderly drow female, her hair silver, “welcome, welcome. I am Doctor Eidel, I was told I would be expecting you today.”

With all the cold, distant reactions from everyone else you’ve met, having such a legitimately warm greeting puts you at ease, despite the very real possibility of a fucking _war criminal_ lurking in around in the brightly decorated halls. “Thank you, hi.”

“Well, I’ve got the file the Starward Matchmakers sent out, so why don’t we step aside in one of the rooms and begin? Would you be comfortable with your party remaining present or waiting just out in the hall?”

The fact you even get a choice fills you with more relief than you can possibly describe. Turning to Elias and the guard, you say, “sorry, I know we’ve been bonding, but I don’t think we’re on the level of you seeing me naked quite yet. Not even-” _the prince has that privilege, yet,_ you don’t say, because that might be going just a tad bit far. “I mean, I’d just appreciate the privacy.”

Absolutely no fight from either of them, probably just as equally opposed to the idea, so you follow the doctor into a room. She hands you a loose hospital gown for you to change into, and leaves you alone. All very basic doctor stuff, with no threats of experimentation and disembowelment. Boy howdy are you glad to have changed medical professionals, huh. The checkup is just like any other you’ve undergone, the doctor quick to look over just the basic health things, then goes over anything else you might be ‘concerned’ with.

“Alright, we’ve got some basic painkillers for your headaches, though it’s not going to be a permanent solution.” Doctor Eidel writes something on her datapad with a white electric pen.

“Are there any... ‘permanent solutions’ in the making?” You can’t imagine having to deal with this forever… though the idea of even being on one planet for the rest of your life gives you a heavy bout of vertigo.

“I’m afraid it’s just a simple matter of biology.” She sets aside the clipboard. “If you were born here, perhaps, it wouldn’t be such a large issue. But since you grew up in a place with smaller gravity- a mining station, correct?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice slightly smaller.

“My suggestion would be that you are going to have to take breaks from the gravity as to not strain your body. Every couple of cycles, you will need to spend, at the very least, equal time back in an area with the same force of gravity as what you are used to. The _keias_ has been trying to find some other fix that would keep you here, on this planet, but I’m afraid that the simplest solution is often the best.”

Again, that feeling of entrapment creeping into your bones. “I- I see, thank you so much for your honesty.”

Again, she picks up her datapad and electric pen, scribbling something else done. “Well, following on the note of honesty, the queen wants a genetic compatibility and fertility test done on you.”

“But- um, I thought the Starward Matchmakers™ do some sort of similar test?” A bolt of panic runs through your spine.

“They do a basic overview, which is as good as a guessing game. _However,_ given the sudden paleness of your skin, I will just pretend that I haven’t seen the message until after you leave.”

Relief numbs your panic, and you let out a breath. “Thank you, yes, I don’t really want you digging around up there right now.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she takes her gloves off, “there’s only a certain amount of things you can avoid before she gets demanding. I’d suggest you talk to the _keias_ so you can hide behind him.”

Well, given the earlier conversation involving dildos and the way he behaved, you aren’t sure he would be a whole lot of help in _that_ regard, but you suppose you might have to give it a try. “Alright.”

“Well then, I’ll leave you to get dressed and order that medication. Don’t bother waiting, I’m sure there are a thousand security measures to get through before you so much as see a pill, so they’ll just be sent up to where you’re staying.” She taps her forehead with the back of her pen. “I’ll also give the prince a very mild suggestion that you get a couple of trips up into a neighboring moon resort in the near future, so your bones to catch a break.”

“Got it, thank you so much.” You mean it, too, this was probably the most candid conversation you’ve had since you got here. Once your clothes are back on, you leave as the doctor instructed, finding Elias and the security guard waiting out in the hall for you to emerge. You give neither of them any updates on your health, it’s not like it’s any of their business, anyway, so you’re rather silent as you get back in the car of the train and try to chill.

As you arrive back in the palace, stepping out of the car and into the courtyard area. Calmly, you look over at Elias as two other figures approach, large and terrifyingly quick, because you are still new to the whole drider royalty thing, and you aren’t sure how you’re supposed to handle this. Politely? Snarkily? Honestly, you’re in the mood for the latter, so you cross your arms in preparation for dealing with some ridiculous bullshit. You recognize one of them, the vice-marshal, he’s the one who gave you that shakedown when you first arrived. Little does he know that without the Starward Matchmaker™ representative to witness your transgressions, you suddenly feel an absolute lack of fear towards him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, looking you over, “you seem to be taking the gravity well.”

“Yeah!” You change your voice to the perkiest, sweetest customer service tone you can muster. “Doc says I’m doing pretty well, how super is that?”

“Super,” he echoes, clearly disgusted by the word in itself. “Now, don’t take this the wrong way, little lady, but my wife and I were rather worried when we heard about the security upgrades. A kidnapping attempt, perhaps? Or even worse, an _assassination?”_

Elias decides to step in, “a thousand apologies, vice-marshal,” damn, you’re getting some deja vu, you wonder how many times he has to say that every day, “but I’m afraid I must escort our lady back to the _keias.”_

_” Of course,”_ the vice-marshal waves his hand in Elias’ general direction, “wouldn’t want _Aksanoskeias_ getting all worried, now. He might wonder if his new fiance is dead, like the other one.”


	9. Fights

_Always handle yourself with grace and poise,_ the matchmaker rep always told you, and you remember that exact quote as your mouth hits the floor. You are so very close to shouting _” what,”_ but by some deity’s grace, you manage to say it in a tone that _doesn’t_ suggest you’re going to march back down and kill the prince with your bare hands.

“Did no one tell you?” The vice marshal clicks his tongue in such transparently false sympathy.

“Of-” you try to push down the bristles, taking in a deeper breath, “of _course_ I’ve been told! I’m just wondering what kind of insignificant _dick_ you’re compensating for with that _piss poor attitude_ you’ve had since I arrived.” There it is, a few weeks’ worth of stress and anger bubbling over the surface. You _knew_ that this would happen eventually, but you suppose you weren’t fully prepared to be tipped over the edge so goddamn early.

Judging by the vice-marshal’s expression, though, he’s clearly not used to being spoken to in that manner, because his entire face goes dark, and his hand raises ever so slightly as though preparing to strike you. “The human body is so much weaker than a drow’s, so much easier to break. What makes you think that you’ll survive one rotation?”

Your guard must have done something because you don’t think the vice-marshal would wince back at your death glare, especially since your prior reputation has been carefully scrubbed clean from the records. With a firm, calm hand, on your shoulder, Elias steers you away almost _roughly,_ apologizing all the while for the sudden departure. You can feel through his pulse that he’s nervous. Or maybe annoyed. You don’t know enough about him to put a specific read yet. Quickly, he has you in the other lift, scanning his pass for permission to enter the servant’s quarters.

“You’re scheming.” Elias surprises you by speaking first after a few moments of stony silence.

_Do you blame me?_ you don’t say. If only you were sure he was just making a casual remark, and not accusing you of being a potential downfall to the royal family. Maybe you shouldn’t sell yourself _that_ high, though.

“I imagine that it must be very different than what you are used to.” Elias responds, glancing in your direction for just a brief moment.

“So very different, yeah.” Your teeth are tightly gritted together, because _that’s_ a severe understatement.

After another moment of awkward quiet. “We both know there is going to be a confrontation,” Elias says, staring straight ahead, “but all I request is that you go easy on him. He… means well.”

“Let’s have a fun little exercise of the imagination,” you say, instead of agreeing, “and let’s say that you get matched with….” You try to get your brain to actually think of some high-level officer, “let’s also say you get matched with one of the few soldiers who are trained in specifically killing driders. We call them the suicide squads, because… um, you get the idea.”

“I don’t think-”

“Let me finish,” you almost snap. “Let’s say this one you get matched with is _alright_ when it comes to you for the most part, but there’s this underlying threat that all of her peers are leaning over you, pressuring her to send your body back over the line in pieces. Which doesn’t even take into account how I’m sure the Royal family is _eager_ to have you feed them information, which you _might_ be able to ignore so long as they don’t have anything to hold over your head, like family, or friends, or-” _a criminal background_ “like… whatever. Now on top of all that, your match’s family is really getting under your skin, as in they want you dead, so what now? You’re stranded in enemy territory, and you’re not sure if you can just say ‘I want to go home’ because something about her makes you wonder if she’s three slights away from strangling you with her bare hands.”

Elias is silent for a moment, then, “I don’t think the prince would-”

_” Then_ you find out that she was serious with someone before who mysteriously _died_ an unknown amount of time ago.”

“I can answer that for you,” Elias says wearily, “two years ago. Her name was Iole.”

“And how _did_ she die?” You ask, trying to tamper down the anger. It doesn’t work, there’s a fuzzy heat fizzling in your chest, like static.

“Her heart gave out,” he says, glancing self-consciously over to the guard, who hasn’t even glanced in your direction.

“Spontaneously?” Because that’s… _so_ suspicious.

“It’s still under official investigation, one that I am not fully privy to.” Elias lets out a muted sigh, tugging at the ends of his sleeves. “However, there are rumors.”

“How interesting,” you spit out through gritted teeth, “why wasn’t I told?”

“I don’t- that is, I didn’t realize that you were not.”

A lie. One that you can sense even through all that careful dignitary training. You let the elevator continue on for a few more tense, quiet moments before saying, “where’s the ship.”

“Where’s what ship? The official matchmaker ship you arrived on?”

“Yes, clearly,” you’re impatient and tense, there’s a weird, pinching feeling in your stomach, “is it in the original place where it was parked? Or did you move it somewhere else?”

He’s silently debating, you can tell, about the benefits versus the risks of telling you. Or even if he’d be able to get away with a lie, you can see it in his eyes. To his credit, he probably realizes that anything besides the truth will probably come to bite him later (namely you. You would bite him later if he lies), so he lets out a sigh that’s probably meant to carefully hide his frustration. “The ship you arrived in is in the same docking bay, though it has not been refueled or maintained at all.”

The doors open with a _ping,_ and you notice a few drow servants lingering in the hallways, so you bite the question down sullenly, crossing your arms over your chest as you walk. Every step towards the prince’s wing is spent deciding how you’re going to speak to him about this. Give him the benefit of the doubt? Go in with all guns blazing? What would he even _say,_ you wonder, once you lay the cards on the table? Would he try to be reasonable? Would he completely lose it and finally kill you? A shiver runs down your spine at the idea of him looking at you the way he stared at those servants. Cold. Bitter. Without any of the timid tenderness he’s shown.

You’re here.

“Why don’t you let me step in first, at least to prepare him for the situation?” Elias offers, looking like he is well aware of the careful calculations that must be done to walk on all those eggshells.

“Um… no, I’m good,” you say, opening the door with a bit more attitude than you meant to. You hear Elias murmur something to the guard as you enter, though only he follows. Aksanos is where you expected him to be, at his desk, working over a large datapad, of which he clears the contents of as you walk over, setting your hands flat on either side of his workspace.

“Did your doctor’s appointment go well?” He asks, his brow furrowing at your aggression.

“Oh, it went _swimmingly,_ thanks for asking.” Your brain is racing, and you’re trying to figure out if you’d like Elias here or absent, or if it would even make any difference. “Say, _babe,_ I think it’s about time we have us a little super serious conversation that we’ve both been putting off.”

He looks over your shoulder at Elias, who probably is emitting a less than thrilled expression at the moment. Then he glances back at you, with a face that’s difficult for you to gauge the emotions portrayed, but he nods, giving Elias a gesture of dismissal. Once the two of you are alone, the door shut and locked firmly against anyone who might interlope, he folds his hands over each other and says, “what is this about, then?”

_” Well,”_ you say, feeling a sense of hysteria bubbling in the back of your throat, “I was being escorted back from my doctor’s appointment- she’s absolutely lovely, by the way, especially with letting me know ahead of time that your mom, _who, if you remember, I have yet to meet,_ wants the very invasive genetic compatibility test done whether I’m willing to consent or not- when I had a little run-in with the vice-marshal.”

He looks like he’s ready to say something, so you raise your hand to let him know that he doesn’t get a turn to talk until you’ve finished your piece.

“So I had such a _fun_ little conversation with him. Turns out, can you even believe it, that you _apparently_ had um, a _fiance_ before I came into the picture? And she _died under mysterious circumstances?”_ You cross your arms tightly around your chest, though you don’t let up on the Best Customer Service Voice, because grossly pretending like everything’s okay is the only thing that’s keeping you from completely losing your shit.

Again, he opens his mouth, his eyes narrowing slightly, but you _still_ have more on your plate to say to him.

“The vice-marshal,” he finally says, “is not one to listen to when it comes to rumors.” It takes you a hot minute to realize that he’s _angry_ because he’s not showing the same kind of dictatorial rage that you’ve witnessed with anyone else. His voice is hard, stony, but not with the same cold detachment he uses with his servants… When he opens his mouth to speak, his fangs seem to be a tad more protruding than when he is otherwise relaxed.

You used to think that the moment he gets enraged would be the moment it’s game over for you, so even though you’re still fucking over this, you try to turn the dial a bit. “So it’s not true, then? You weren’t about to marry someone else before she was killed?”

He’s silent a moment before relenting. “No, it is true. Iole and I… it was… it was a radical union, certainly, because of her lowblood status, but…” he takes a deep breath, “yes. I was going to marry her.”

“Low-blood status,” you need him to clarify.

There is a long, drawn-out moment of hesitation, and then he says, “she was a drow.”

“And this is just information that you decided _wasn’t_ pertinent for me to know? Do you just _casually_ put the people you know in mortal danger?” _He does, though,_ you’ve forgotten who you’ve been talking to. Blinded by the gentle gestures and sweet conversation, the stories of his sadistic nature slowly melted away until your guard was so low someone would have to _dig_ to set off any warning bells. Of course, you _knew_ you were walking into danger when you finally accepted the calling, but you didn’t realize that there’s someone out there that would go far enough to try assassination.

“I informed the Starward Matchmakers™ of the threat, and I thought they would pass it on to you,” he says, too steadily for your liking. As if that’s a valid excuse.

“That’s convenient for you.”

“I’m sorry that retelling the story of how I found the love of my life, _dead,_ isn’t something I enjoy speaking of often.” His voice finally raises, and you feel a spike of adrenaline burst through your system.

“But you didn’t even think that this might be information that I would _need to know,_ even _after_ someone tried to _fucking kill me?”_

“I did not think it would go this far,” he snarls, “but who is to say that the assassination attempt falls under our jurisdiction? You have plenty of your own enemies, from what I understand of _your own_ conveniently unmentioned past.”

You’re so angry you’re _shaking,_ is he seriously going to bring up your work as a valid excuse for his shitty behavior? But still, even in your burning rage, you don’t want to give him any more than you have to. “I’ve never put anyone not willing in the direct line of fire, and that _includes_ knowing the risks involved.”

He stands to his full height, and you find yourself taking a step back instinctually, eyes quickly roaming the immediate area for any weapons that you might be able to use against him. As soon as your eyes fall onto a pen on his desk, then back at him, his entire demeanor changes, and he settles back down, placing his head in his hands. It takes you a minute of the ensuing silence to realize that you’re still trembling, both with adrenaline and anger. But you’re also bristled, tense, fully prepared to fight for your life. You don’t move the step back closer, because something inside you says he might still try to wring your delicately human neck.

“I loved her,” he says, finally. “I really… I really, truly did. I thought that our union would work for the benefit of all castes.”

You stay decidedly silent.

“And I didn’t think it would end that way.”

You don’t want to hear this, you don’t want to _see him_ speak so forlornly about a lover from the past, either. You don’t care, though, _you don’t,_ and you’re very quick to squish _that_ thought back down to a place you never intend on revisiting. There’s a soft thrumming in the back of your head again, there’s nothing more you’d like to do than to lay down.

“I told my mother I would marry again, but on my own terms.” He sets his hands back down on the desk, looking up at you with those glassy, emotionless eyes. “The best possible match, scientifically proven, the universe’s union, etcetera, you know the advertisement they put out.”

You swallow thickly.

“And the deal was that if I matched with no one, then that was it. I could do as I please, and she would leave me be. I made the deal because I was so, _so_ certain that Iole was my soulmate. Some people don’t get matched, you know. People whose soulmates just don’t have the money to put into the program, or people whose soulmates are dead. I thought I would be the latter. I thought this would buy me more time. And it did, at first. No one in the database matched with me… until you.”

_Until you drunkenly stumbled out of a bar with someone, neon lights glittering your vision, bitter, angry, sullen, and reckless._ You take a deep, steadying breath, holding your hand out to stop him from saying whatever it is that he plans on saying next. “Losing someone close to you…” your chest tightens, but you continue, “it fucking sucks. I get it, _I really do,_ but that doesn’t give you a pass from any of the consequences at hand.” _So I know whether or not to cut my losses and run._

He doesn’t react negatively, only… like he’s defeated. His torso slumps forward, resting his chin on one of his hands, staring blankly at the empty screen on the desk. “And… and what of _your_ past relationships? Do I get to learn about the romances of a rogue pilot?”

Again, there’s a spike of anger churning in your blood. “Mindless, random _hookups_ don’t hold a goddamn candle to a person you plan on _marrying_ and you know it.”

“Do I?” He asks, getting angry again, but doesn’t try threatening you with his size. Instead, he stays carefully still, his hands folded on the desk. “How many people have you ever slept with? Do you even know the number?”

“Does it even matter? Do my past relationships somehow make me less of a person?”

He makes a face, then, and you can see, _yes,_ he does think that way.

You bristle immediately, arms crossing over your chest again, and you take in a deep, shaking breath. The judgment is what gets to you, just how he thinks he can categorize you in some kind of box. “I want to go home.”

Panic, at least, you _think_ the way he tenses is because of some kind of panic. _You hope it’s panic._ His voice, at least, is a bit tighter and more strained than before. “That might not be the best step to take at this moment.”

“I think that it’s the _best_ step for me to take actually, because I really don’t like it here.” _And I’m not sure if I like you, either._

After a moment of staring at you, probably gauging just how serious that statement is, he rubs his jaw, looking back down to the desk. There’s a pinch of fear in your system because he could just… keep you here. You have no power, and he knows this, so in the few moments of deathly silence, you _feel_ him _thinking about it._ Finally, he says, “let’s… let’s not be so hasty with such decisions.”

“Hasty? What about this is being hasty?” The muscles in your arm tighten in the expectation of a physical fight. “I’ve been here for a while, and we aren’t getting along, so maybe it’s time for us to part ways.”

“That is the _exact_ definition of hasty, you’ve only been here for what, a few weeks? How long have you managed to hold onto a single romantic relationship for?”

You want to stomp your foot back down on the ground. “That has absolutely _nothing_ to do with me wanting to leave.”

“I think it does.” Aksanos taps his fingers on the desk. “Have you ever been in a committed relationship?”

Thinking about your committed _business_ relationships, you nod, angrily.

“Who?” He asks, and at your weak shrug, he lets out a sigh. Both of you are completely silent, staring at each other, daring the other to break the quiet first. Then, after a few moments, he lets out another huff of breath and leans back. “I’ll have Elias send you a full report on your android assistant directly.”

“I want to leave.”

“I know.” He finally looks you in the eye again. “May I convince you to at least wait until your assistant is back online?”

“Do I even have a choice?” You ask sullenly, a direct challenge to his final authority.

“You do,” he says, voice clearly strained.

You pause, then, almost too scared to test it out. Still, you mull the idea over, cutting your losses, making a run for it. Sure, the space marines will be undoubtedly _pissed,_ but you’ve had to lay low before. It’s not anything new. Maybe you’d even be able to open a business in this territory, because surely _no one_ would dare raise a finger on the _keias’_ soulmate, even if the two of you can’t fucking stand each other. Slowly, you uncross your arms and put them on your hips, trying to unlock your jaw from the straining grit you’ve put in for the argument.

Through your quiet contemplation, there’s a flicker of… tightness? Stress? On his face, and you think it might because he’s afraid that you’re going to fuck right off into the wild unknown and never speak to him again. You’d be lying if you said that that specific scenario didn’t appeal to you in the slightest, because it _does._ But there’s something else missing from that vision, you don’t know _what,_ so you let out an angry, frustrated breath. “I’ll think it over.”

He relaxes slightly, but you aren’t going to let him think of this as a victory.

“This isn’t a yes or a no, this is an _I’ll think about it.”_ You need a goddamn nap. “Risking my life for the mythical _perfect love_ isn’t fucking worth it, especially if I’m not being respected.”

“Respected? How have you not been respected? You’ve been honored as one of _us_ since you stepped foot off the ship.”

“Not being forthright about information is basically lying!” You throw your hands up in frustration. “You don’t even understand what I’m saying! You’re being so _fucking dismissive,_ and I want to leave because _I don’t feel safe,_ even with all the security modifications you’ve made.”

“The servants are to give you whatever-”

“That’s not what I mean, and _you know it.”_ You’re shaking again, sure your face is bright red in anger.

He’s quiet once more, staring blankly at the wall behind you. “Would… would you like to invite someone you trust to stay with you, in the absence of your assistant?”

Who would you even invite, really? Who do you trust enough to keep their heads low and follow your every direction with no ulterior motives? Well, besides yourself? Your ship, maybe. But definitely not anyone _you_ know. “Have the Starward Matchmakers™ been informed of their personnel malfunction?”

“Not… specifically, no.”

You almost facepalm, but that’s _fair,_ you guess. “It would look _remarkably_ suspicious if I invited someone over without communicating with the main hub first?”

“Does it even matter?” He asks, almost impatiently.

_He still doesn’t know._ And you plan on keeping it that way. So, carefully, you think about a way you can phrase an answer without planting any suspicion. “I’m just saying, sending for someone when the android assistant is offline with no specific communications with her manufacturers is going to look extremely suspicious. I guess it won’t affect you in any way, so I guess you wouldn’t care.” _It would look bad for you, though._

If he had irises t, you’re certain that the prince would be rolling them now. “Fine. I’ll have Elias get in contact with the Starward Matchmakers™ headquarters. Are you certain that there is no one you would like to fetch while they work out what happened?”

The Starward Matchmakers™ are just going to send another one of their android assistants. Do you _really_ want a line going straight to the CEOs who have far too many stakes in this working out than otherwise? Actually, the idea is rather appealing. Maybe if you had someone from a secondary faction, someone outside of the Starward Matchmakers™, but still backed by enough authority to walk right over a faceless but powerful corporation. Best case scenario, the two will just but heads and get nothing done, which leaves _you_ to figure out how best to proceed.

“I guess,” you say, trying to sound noncommittal, “if she _wants_ to come, then I’d like her to be here.”

“Who?” You see he’s already prepping something on his keyboard.

“Clementine Montague.”


	10. Sweet Clementine

When she steps off the ship, her brown, curly hair wisping in the heat radiating from the bulkhead making up the ceiling, despite what you’re certain is layer upon layer of insulation. She’s dressed the most casual you’ve seen, long, tight black pants, a plain shirt, and a jacket that she’s carrying in one arm rather than wearing. As she comes down the grated stairs of the ship, you feel a tug of panic, unsure of your decision to invite her at all, but if you need someone to make people disappear, Clem’s your girl.

She hugs you, almost robotically, for the first time ever, and she smells like… like the stale air pumped through hydroponics as it supplies oxygen in larger ships and stations, which is basically _home_ for you. Tears almost prickle in your eyes, though you’re not sure if it’s the acidic air lingering on her clothing or the fact she’s the first human being you have seen since you left the spaceport to fly over the border.

“Good to see you, babe,” she says, wrapping her arm around your shoulder despite the smoldering heat as you lead her back to where Elias is standing, arms at his sides, so much like when _you_ first arrived but lacking the same welcoming warmth. The two guards that have been assigned for the sake of your safety don’t even offer her a second glance, but you know that they would be quick to draw their weapons if she so much as _breathes_ in a way they don’t like.

“Elias,” you say, gesturing to Clem with your free hand, “this is my friend, Clementine.”

“Of course,” he says, offering her the same, respectful bow that you usually receive, though there’s less of an angle, “Allow me to welcome you to Lolth. And how do you two know each other again, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“Schoolmates,” Clem supplies, her accent thickly different from yours, but you don’t suppose they might pay such mind. “We both went to the same pilot training for commercial licensing.”

There’s some truth to the lie, but any further evidence needed can be easily fabricated.

“I see,” Elias says when neither of you offers up anything more. He’s suspicious, but you suppose you aren’t as particularly worried as you thought you might be. “Right this way, er, captain, is it?”

“Ensign,” Clem smiles widely, her arm around your waist in the prettiest picture of friendship, though her grip on your hip is deathlike, severe.

“Of course, a thousand apologies for my mistake.”

On the way back, Clem’s filling you in on all the scandalous gossip that neither of you even care about, but by the way Elias’ eyes seem to bug out of his eyes, he’d rather pay attention to literally anything else. For all her viciousness while training you in drider self-defense, she is a fucking _chatterbox_ when she wants to be.

“So you remember the second elf prince, right? The one with the long-ass white hair? The one who wears the gold crowns all the goddamn time, remember? Right, so he got his Starward Matchmakers™ match and _my god,_ she was a human, just like us. I thought it was kind of funny _that,_ happened, so close to your matching, too. And she’s so pretty, she’s basically a model, but you will _not_ believe who it is- guess. _Guess!”_

“Um,” you wrack your brain, “is it someone I know about?”

“You mentioned liking the movie she was in.” Clementine lets out a _very_ uncharacteristic giggle, and you feel the hair on your arms stand up in response.

“Oh, shit,” you think even harder, thinking over any movies that you’ve seen during the short duration of her grueling training, mostly only to see if you could copy the lovestruck expressions of the people on screen. _” One Million Stars?”_

“Nope.”

You furrow your brow. _” All the Ways I Love You?”_

“Closer.”

Inwardly, you cringe at your next option. “Do _not_ tell me that it’s the recent rendition of Jane Austen’s _Emma.”_

“It is!” Clem laughs, clapping her hands together. “Oh my god, it’s the main actress.”

Even though you weren’t particularly interested in the conversation to begin with, the image of the actress who played, well, _Emma,_ marrying the fucking _light elf prince_ befuddles your mind until you’re just as invested in the story as Clem pretends to be. “Shut up.”

“I know! Wild, isn’t it?”

The rest of the train ride is nothing more than mindless talk over the upcoming wedding, which you don’t have access to via the media blackout. Clem spares you no details, and you _try_ to pretend to be taking in every single detail with just as much excitement when you really could not possibly care less about the pros and cons of different colors debated on for the bride’s corsage.

Clem gets her own apartment, probably even the one that you used to live in, but first and foremost, she gets to sit in on a dinner between three of you. There’s a lot that’s going to go down during the meal, you know that the prince probably also wants to give Clementine his own version of the third degree. You’d do anything to be alone with her, just for a few moments, no monitoring or bugs, to supply her a brief rundown of what may happen, but you suppose that she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t prepared for everything.

They don’t give her time to change from the outfit she is wearing, but Clem doesn’t appear to mind, checking her wristwatch when the train finally arrives at the last stop necessary. She’s silent during the walk to the elevator, you’re not certain if it’s because she’s run out of things to say, or if she is committing the path to memory. Maybe she’s mentally planning on how to dispose of every person who might stand between her and the prince.

“Did Starward Matchmakers™ corporate headquarters give you any trouble for coming alone?” You ask once the elevator doors close, because you _have_ to know, and it’s probably a safe enough question to ask.

Clementine rolls her eyes, an answer in itself. “I was accosted right outside my apartment by a league of corporate drones, but it was clear that I was the one who would have to beg border control to let me take them. Something about Lolth’s people rejecting any external communications devices.”

There’s more to the story that she’s not telling you, probably something having to do with the military, so you don’t ask. “The Starward Matchmakers™ have an aggressive kind of marketing campaign, huh?”

“You’re telling _me.”_ Clem snorts, examining her nails in distaste. “Now I know why you were so exasperated with even being in the same room as one of them, once they latch on, they don’t like letting go.”

After a moment of awkward silence, mainly because you are filtering what might be safe information to say in response in your brain, you turn over to Elias. “You don’t have an account with the Starward Matchmakers™, right?”

He’s stiff, clearly thinking back to your fun little conversation from a little longer than a week prior. “I’m afraid I do not, your grace.”

Clem lets out a gasp. “Oh my god, you get called _your grace?_ That’s so funny!”

You cringe. “Elias, we talked about that.”

He goes back to looking over his datapad, clearly not remorseful in the slightest. “A thousand apologies, miss.”

Clem giggles, giving him a pat on the shoulder that Elias _clearly_ doesn’t seem to like, just by the way he looks up from the datapad and onto her hand, and she says, “well, buddy, we’re on the same boat there.”

Luckily for everyone involved in the conversation, the elevator dings, the doors opening. Quickly, you step out, tugging Clem behind, knowing exactly where it is you need to walk to get to the prince’s quarters, which is where you asked the prince to have dinner instead of the stiff environment of the dining room. Given the fact it was, quite literally, one of the few times you actually spoke to him since the argument, he actually agreed.

You enter his suite, hand on Clem’s arm, and that’s when she finally gets a good, in-person view of the _prince_ himself. From your understanding of her position within the military, you _know_ that she’s seen driders up close and personal before. Still, when someone isn’t constantly surrounded by them every single day, it’s probably easy to forget just how fucking _massive_ they are.

There’s a slight flinch when she lays eyes on him, you don’t know if she exaggerates it for the sake of seeming small and innocent, or if that was actually her body’s reaction to facing the prince. Nevertheless, she presses forward, offering up a big, award-winning smile in his direction as you offer up a meager introduction.

You’re still not quite on speaking terms with him again, but you _are_ grateful that he allowed a trained soldier into his presence. Not that _he_ knows the last bit, but still. “This is my friend, Clementine. Clem, this is,” you figure out how _exactly_ you plan on introducing him because you never got this far when thinking about the two of them actually meeting, “the crown prince of Lolth.”

“It is nice to meet you finally.” If Aksanos is upset about you not introducing him by name, he doesn’t show it, only glares over at Clementine with a critical stare. When she holds her hand out to shake, he only eyes it, curiously, but makes absolutely no motion to actually reciprocate the gesture. Clem, though, is absolutely nonplussed by it, retracting her arm.

“I just want to thank you for taking care of my favorite person in the whole entire universe.” She places a hand on the top of your head and obnoxiously ruffles your hair. “Unless, of course, you haven’t, because I _will_ rip your dick off if you don’t treat my girl right.”

Aksanos stares, clearly unsure of how to handle such a direct, brutal threat to his reproductive regions. There is a sudden stiffening, yes, and you see his fists close, but he does not react with cruelty. Not yet.

Elias leans closer to his ear. “I believe that a show of human comradery is the threat of violence to a seen threat on behalf of an individual belonging to the group.”

“I see.” Aksanos nods thoughtfully, though you can see that he is still slightly overly guarded. “Well, I suppose that is an… an intriguing way of showing affection. Dinner will be served shortly, Clementine, if you would please take a seat?”

It wasn’t a request, but he has gotten better at framing his orders more softly as of late.

Clem’s still in her cutesy _I-will-not-shut-up-to-save-my-life_ persona, so she talks about how pretty the architecture of the city is, how neat the trains are, the smooth descent of the aircraft that carried her over, the decoration in the prince’s room, until you’re almost _certain_ you can see blood running out of his ears. All the while, you remain silent, letting him affirm or mumble weak responses when her sentences end with questions. Only once dinner is about to end does he look over in your direction for some kind of assistance.

Using your cup to hide your smile, you say nothing.

When dinner is actually over, you make it very clear that you will be helping Clementine settle in, pushing yourself from the chair and standing.

Before you leave, the prince also rises to his full height, almost _glowering_ over you and Clem both, but you try not to feel afraid.

“Can I speak to you for a moment,” he almost _glares_ at Clementine, “privately?”

Before you can either accept or refuse, Clem gets the hint and gives you a friendly pat. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

_No, don’t go-_ you think as she steps out of the suite and into the hall, Elias following her as if to keep her from doing anything stupid. Like he would hold a candle to her if it really came down to it, anyways. Your backside still aches when you think about that one time she _really_ got you good, flipping your whole body over her shoulder and slamming you onto the ground almost hard enough to break something.

Still, trying to pretend not to feel far too uncomfortable without her reassuring presence, you turn around, facing the prince with your arms crossed over your chest. “Yes?”

“Your friend…” his brow furrowed, and you can see him _try_ to offer up some kind of criticism without sounding particularly harsh, which must be some kind of first because there are a lot of mental olympics going on in his brain, “is very… talkative.”

“Yup.”

He’s quiet for a bit more, and you’re already bouncing on the balls of your toes in order to leave the moment he seems finished with the conversation. “Why did you pick her?”

“We went to pilot school together-” you start the usual spiel, but are interrupted.

“I’m sure you went to pilot school with a lot of people.”

You can’t tell if he’s trying to catch you in a lie or challenge your choice. Maybe he thinks you brought her specifically to annoy him? Irritably, you scratch at the edge of your arm, trying to think of a way to spin your relationship as something positive, finally landing somewhere. “She’s smart.”

“Smart,” the prince repeated, almost like he can’t believe it.

Slowly, you uncross your arms, letting out a sigh. Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose, you say, calmly, _” Aksanos.”_

That seems to focus all attention on you because you have stopped using his name, referencing him only as _your most esteemed royal highness_ when you wanted his attention.

“She’s very, very smart.” That’s all you say. “Will that be all, _sire?”_

His jaw sets and his eyes seem to narrow, though he doesn’t seem to say anything else. “Yes, that will be.”

“Cool.” You spin around, heading out the door as well.

Elias looks absolutely relieved to see you, even when a flash of worry crosses his face when he realizes how short the actual conversation was. You don’t give him any reason to ponder any longer, though, because you take Clem by the arm and march over to the elevators through the hallways. The guards, of whom must have been standing outside the prince’s quarters the entire time, follow, though not at such a close range that it’s stifling.

Well, it is _very_ stifling still, but at least they are no longer attached at your hip.

“Trouble in paradise?” Clem asks, an entirely valid question even if she _wasn’t_ here to, well, you know.

You glance back at Elias, who at least has the decency to pretend like he’s _not_ eavesdropping on the conversation. Trying to phrase everything carefully, you say only, “we’ve had some arguments.”

“Oh no, babe,” Clem pets your arm, every inch the concerned best friend, “what’s going on with you two?”

“Can we talk about this _later,”_ you say, looking back at Elias to give the _I really don’t want to discuss this now with him present_ look, and Clem gets the memo.

“We can talk drama later, let’s get my stuff set up. I’m literally ready to die right now, how did you manage your first day on Lolth with that fucking android bossing you around?”

“I didn’t,” you snort, rolling your eyes, “I was almost dead by dinner.”

Clem ends up not getting the same suite you did, probably because she’s alone. Already, there’s a totally _not_ a trained killer servant who is absolutely _not_ already reporting every way Clem moves back to the prince. Luckily, though, all her things have been scanned and cleared by security, so her two suitcases are placed in her room for the both of you to rifle through.

The both of you didn’t _have_ to exchange the _we’re clearly being monitored somehow_ conversation, because you both know that the likelihood of her apartment being bugged is monumentally enormous. So you continue the weird, listless chatter of two old friends, looking over her clothes and such, and folding them to put in the wardrobe.

It’s a good several hours before Elias dares to peek his head into the bedroom through the wide-open door, though clearly ready to flee if he ends up seeing something he didn’t want to. “I hate to interrupt, and I offer many apologies to her grace, but the prince is requesting your presence back in his quarters.”

You stare at him, taking a minute to process the words, then say, “can’t I spend the night here?”

Elias gives you a look that begs, _please do not make me carry you back kicking and screaming._

With a loud, disgruntled sigh to let him know that you will not be complying with a good attitude, you stand, brushing the invisible dust from your pants, and cross your arms across your chest. Clem pops up to her feet as well, giving you a nearly bone-crushing hug. You’re not sure if it’s a gesture of comfort or an outright threat, but knowing Clem, it was probably both.

“G’night, babe,” she says, giving your back an almost painful pat, then lets you go.

Enjoying the fact that you can breathe again, you nod, offering your own goodnights, then follow Elias back out into the hallway. One of the guards follows, the other stationing himself out by Clem’s door.

You can feel the judgment from Elias radiating onto you as you walk, but you don’t mention anything, hoping that he’ll just let the subject drop. Unfortunately, though, as you step back into the elevator, he decides that it’s time to spark up some conversation about you maybe giving the prince an easier time.

“He is working hard to adjust to you.”

“Funny, that,” you say, looking over your nails in mock disinterest. “I seem to remember asking to leave. Look where that got me.”

“You’re being unnecessarily cruel.”

You _glare,_ because Elias has never been so forthright with how he feels about your general attitude about things. Again, you feel leagues of anger bubble into your chest, but you try to stifle it all before you stare at the closed doors of the elevator, trying not to feel the stone of the cavern closing in on your soul. “Maybe so.”

Elias turns back to his datapad, clearly not particularly thrilled about your response. “He was very excited to meet you, just so you know. I hadn’t seen him so much as _smile_ since Iole’s passing.”

Oh, playing _dirty,_ are we? You run through the argument again, your entire face scrunching up when your chest grows tight with anger. “Too bad I’m such a horrid little disappointment. Funny how the first time the Starward Matchmakers™ fuck up is one of the most important relationships of all time.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then, Elias suddenly shoves his hand forward, pressing one of the buttons on the elevator. There’s a sudden jerk of gravity, your knees almost buckling to the added pressure, and the damn cabin screeches to a stop. Calmly, Elias turns over to you and says, “you’re not a disappointment.”

“Don’t fucking try to _lie,_ ” you say, putting your hand on where you stashed the knife. “I know how you all feel about humans, stop pretending like I’m somehow everything that he’s dreamed _and more._ People have already tried killing me.”

“Do not mistake the inherent viciousness of Lolth’s people with how the prince actually feels.” Elias is uncharacteristically stern, glaring at you with an expression that’s pushed beyond annoyance. “You need to allow these emotions to pass.”

You scowl. “He hasn’t even apologized, I can’t ‘allow these emotions to pass’ when he isn’t even sorry about accusing me of being a whore.”

_That_ tidbit of information might not have entirely made it to Elias’ notes, or maybe he wasn’t ready to hear it spoken so plainly, but he at least reaches over your shoulder and resumes the elevator ride. “He has plans, you know. To end the war.”

In a sense, so do you, but you remain silent, letting Elias talk over your head while you stubbornly refuse to look at him.

“And he’ll need your help to do so.”

Even if that’s the case, you remain silent, stepping out of the elevator once the doors are barely open enough to fit your body through. With a pace as quick as possible, you head down the hall, arms around your chest, as Elias and the guard hastily follow. As you approach the doors, again, Elias, offers you some more advice.

“Try to be understanding, he’s been through a lot.”

“Do you think I haven’t?” You ask, shaking him off.

“I’m afraid that we don’t know _what_ exactly you’ve been through, everything from both the matchmaking corporation and your government haven’t been the most forthcoming.”

_With good reason._ “I’m afraid that the same can be said about him.”

“Then ask.” Elias reaches over, picking a bit of dust from your shoulder in an almost mechanically similar way to when Clem did so, not many hours before. “He values honesty above all else, I believe that if you were to prod about his life, he would tell you what you’d like to know.”

_Unlike you,_ the unspoken words cling to the air. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you take a deep, _deep_ breath and enter the apartment.

The prince is at his desk and only glances up as you walk into the room. Elias follows, only to offer a brief rundown of Clem’s acclimation to the planet. Or at least what he’s seen thus far. You’re less generous, only offering a curt _goodnight_ as you pass, going not only into his room but into the enormous closet where you’ve made yourself a little nest to rest in.

Sleep doesn’t come easy anymore, but you no longer feel safe requesting for any sort of medical treatment. So you usually end up curled up against the flowing cloth that drips down from the shelves, almost burying yourself in the hopes of remaining unnoticed by any assassin who might wander in willy-nilly. You don’t want to share the same bed with the prince anymore, the closeness like a fucking disease now that you’re not sure if you even _like_ him.

After a night of fitful rest, you’re slow to wake up, crawling out from your little nest, and get yourself looking at least halfway decent in the bathroom. There’s a layer of crust in the corners of your eyes, and the foggy veil doesn’t seem to lift, even after you wash your face. Luckily, the excitement and nervousness that comes with seeing Clem again make up for any lingering listlessness you’ve usually felt in the mornings.

Breakfast has already been served, and you suppose that you will not be eating with her because your place has already been set at the table. Normally, you give the cold shoulder to the prince, waiting for him to leave just for the sake of eating in peace, but you decide that you’re going to _try_ to follow Elias’ advice and give the prince an opening for the possibility… you don’t know yet. An opening for _something._

Elias is already in the room, careful not to look at you as he runs through a checklist of what the day supposedly entails for the prince himself while you help yourself to the platter in the center of the table. The prince, to his credit, also doesn’t make any snide comments about your presence and continues on discussing topics of interest with Elias while you silently shovel food into your mouth.

When it’s finally time for the prince to leave, you tap your fingers against the table in thought, trying to figure out where best to talk discuss high crimes with the least amount of risk of eavesdropping. After a moment of hesitation, you say, still focusing your gaze on the cup laid out on the table, “Clem and I are spending the morning in the garden.”

You feel the prince turn around and look at you, thinking over the statement. “You will bring the guards.”

“Fine.” You expected as much.

He leaves, no shouting match, no underhanded insults. There.

You can behave.

For now.

You finish your breakfast by grabbing some kind of fruit the size of a grape, popping it into your mouth, and getting up once you’re sure the prince himself is long gone. There are two guards stationed just outside your door, which… great. You were hoping for only one, but it looks like your safety is being _very_ seriously considered. Unfortunate.

Clementine is awake when you finally get to her room and already dressed. Again, when she sees you, she gives you a hug, arm around your waist, and offers up some mindless chit-chat to uphold her obnoxious reputation. The walk to the gardens feels less long when she’s walking alongside, almost attached to your waist.

Losing them is _challenging,_ because it’s a matter of being close enough to be seen, but not enough to be heard. They insist on following wherever you go, sometimes coming close enough to return to earshot, so you have to risk explicitly requesting them to back off. “You can do your job just fine a few paces over there, we’re just going to sit and admire the flowers.”

They don’t argue, _thankfully,_ you don’t know what you would do if they refused. Throw a tantrum? You plop yourself down in front of a field of fluorescent flowers, turning your head so they couldn’t read your lips if they tried, and run your fingers over the glowing petals.

Clementine’s entire demeanor changes once she’s assured no one is looking, though her posture remains the same. It’s her facial expression that really makes her seem like an entirely different person, the bubbly cheer gone and replaced with a startling, hard layer of seriousness. Her brow furrows, her eyes _glare,_ her gaze out towards the unfamiliar flora. Even when she speaks, her voice is so drastically altered that anyone else might not even recognize her actual self.

“Didn’t think I would end up here in anything but a warship.” It’s the most honest thing she’s said since she first stepped out of the ship.

“Is it different from how you imagined?” You pick one of the flowers at the base of the stem, running the length between your fingers.

“I didn’t expect to be given the VIP experience, that’s for sure.” She turns to you, and you feel like a bug under the microscope, her stare not quite accusing yet, but you know something’s fundamentally wrong with how you’ve handled things. “The drider we had dinner with last night, that’s your match.”

You don’t see where she’s going with this. “Yeah, the prince?”

“The crown prince of Lolth,” she clarifies like she’s trying to entrap you. “The drider we had dinner with last night is the crown prince of Lolth.”

“Yes?” You answer in a question, uncertain.

“Are you sure?”

Just by her questioning, you’re suddenly _not_ positive, because Clementine doesn’t at all seem like she’s buying into his identity. “That’s what they- he, everyone has told me. Why?”

“Because according to all information the military has gathered, that drider is _not_ the crown prince."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:·ﾟ✧

**Author's Note:**

> *Youtuber voice* If you liked what you read, smash that kudos button! Want to tell me how much you liked this fic? Leave me a comment! Want to keep tabs on my writings? Subscribe and you get a free (yes, FREE) email every time I publish a fic! Want me to write more? Shower me with praise because positive reinforcement motivates me to work!


End file.
